Polygonal
by manhattan martini
Summary: Or, the stories of when each of them screwed each other senseless. Third chapter: Gold, Crystal, and the last weeks of training before the Battle Frontier. Re-posted.
1. Red & Yellow

**A/N: **I'm sorry—something gave me a hormonal explosion. Maybe it was the food, maybe it was ten days of independence and indescribable happiness. Nevertheless, I've been meaning to write this for a long time now. So, I've written sex; yay. And, Red/Yellow is the most difficult pairing to write smut for. I shit you not.

Also, critique is my best friend!

* * *

**1—  
Red & Yellow**

…

The house is alone when Red waltzes around in his boxers. The summer makes everything sticky and hot; and he's alone, so why bother with unnecessary layers of clothing? The teenager steps towards his kitchen, watches the radiant sun just born (the yellow light against pale blue sky reminding him of blond hair against blue sheets) and makes a lazy grab for the bread.

He's all out of butter. Red curses under his breath, and after a few minutes of fruitless search of his grocery list, he gives up, falling silently into a cheap chair. He has no idea what day it is today, and to be frank he doesn't quite care, because it's not as if Blue will suddenly remember he exists, and it's not as if Green will drop from the skies and tell him that he prefers to be in his company, instead of burying himself in research papers with his blue-haired assistant.

Red bites the bread and his teeth complain.

* * *

Celadon's mall casts a shadow on him, and he stays still for a little while, enjoying the deserted streets and the dry heat. It's rush hour—but it's also too hot, and neither children nor old people walk around because of the heat. He supposes that adults are either working or enjoying themselves at home; with a sigh, he walks inside, and is instantly slapped by a blow of cold air.

The women at the counter don't even glance at him while he passes by, directed towards the stairs. He stops and blows his bangs away from his sticky forehead; pokes around his pockets for the list. He needs to buy butter, food for his pokémon, and while he climbs slowly, feeling the back of his neck still warm, he considers buying a lemonade as well—or at least a soda pop. He doesn't know how much money he's got, and chides himself for forgetting to count the pennies and bills in his brown wallet.

"Can I help you with anything?" the women at the counter ask, politely, and he shakes his head.

It's too hot for him to talk, and he's feeling very lazy as he walks in-between the colorful shelves, full of brand new items and fishing bait. He reminds himself not to think about slim legs and pink lips, because, for Pete's sake, he's in public and the last thing he needs is a quick run to the bathroom while he tries to believe he has everything under control. The picture of her, in a pale-green swimming suit, with red cheeks and flawless smiles just for him (or so he likes to believe), has him struggling for breath.

His skin tingles all over, and his presses his closed fingers tightly against his palm, until it stings. He breathes – in, out, in, _out_ – and tries his best to forget about girls beneath thin spandex. Red fails at that until one of the people around him grabs him by the shoulder and inquires if everything is alright.

"Yes, yes," he hurriedly asserts, but what he really means is _I'm not sure?_

* * *

It's obvious that in the middle of hormonal nightmares, in the end he forgets all about butter and pokémon food, and buys a notepad instead. He's no idea whether her birthday is close or far (actually, he has), but he promises to himself that in the near future, he'll hand it to her offhandedly. Maybe over dinner—maybe over breakfast.

He shuts his eyes and sighs desperately, feeling the urgent need to crumple _and/or_ destroy something. He sticks with the crumpling, grabbing a pair of dirty boxers from the floor of his bedroom and concentrating in nothing but making his arm get tired. It works for three minutes and then an epiphany seizure attacks him with full-force, with the image of a blond girl dressed with his boxers and nothing more, sheets fisted by her chest as he kisses her chastely and not-so chastely.

Red groans irritably, gets up, and locks the door to his bathroom from inside.

He knows it's normal for a guy his age, but still it doesn't mean it makes it okay, the fact that every time he sees her (or even thinks of her), he feels himself harden with half-lidded fervor and a desperate need to touch her in naked spots. He watches Green live each day with resolute normalness, and Blue's limits are located near first base – or so he's heard – so he feels a little bit out. Maybe it's because all his life all he's chased are rare pokémon instead of having chased skirts.

He groans into the shower and feels his knees weaken in accord with his fantasy of him-her-and-a-kitchen-counter. His boxers get discarded by the dirty laundry pile, after he returns.

In his desperation, he assumes that asking Gold for advice on getting the girl is a wise decision.

* * *

It turns out it isn't because Gold doesn't stop laughing at him for fifteen minutes; and what a shameful example he is, asking a younger kid for help—especially in such a delicate matter as the fact that he's severely undersexed and going crazier every day that swims by. Of course that Red isn't _that_ stupid, and he doesn't phrase it like that; instead of, _I need to screw Yellow's brains out_, what comes out is, _I want to pronounce my never-dying love for her_.

It's fairly the same thing on his opinion, because, well, he's not the type of guy who'd sleep with someone he doesn't have feelings for. And maybe that's why Gold laughs so much, not that he thinks about it; maybe he's too apparent and too obvious in his interest in her.

Gold rubs his nose expertly, "How far have you two gone?"

Something sounds terribly wrong. Red snuffs that sensation away soon enough as he tenses in Gold's bedroom carpeted floor. He can hear his mom downstairs, singing softly while cooking a chocolate cake, and when he turns to express his urgency and distress, because, _my god can't he speak lower_, the younger boy just shrugs.

"…I—this, this isn't a very good idea," Red manages to say, voice quivering along with his fingers. Pictures and imagined sounds flood his mind as his cheeks burn accordingly, something inside him stretching and touting his need for a lay.

"Suit yourself, virgin-boy," Gold replies immediately, smirk widening in his face. He straightens in his bed; it squeaks and he snorts: "I'll willingly and so awesomely share my past experiences, now. Listen and learn, because I won't last forever."

He sounds more chipper than he should.

* * *

He's sure that he won't be managing to stare at Crystal in the face for the next months; at least not while Gold's spicy words are travelling around in his brain, hot and feisty and surprisingly ordinary in their existence, for something coming out of _his_ mouth—he will never stare at Gold's kitchen the same way (the disappointment in his mother's voice almost hurt when he refused a slice of cake, but he wouldn't take anything that had touched the table or the counters).

Red reaches home and picks up his pokégear, absently texts Yellow, and waits. His eyelids are heavy with his lack of sleep, but he forces himself minimally awake just so that he'll feel the vibration of the machine in his hand. It buzzes soon enough, and the ends of his fingers tingle.

These are the little moments that have him feel guilty for grunting out her name and then falling to his knees, out of breath; or for, when he wakes up with a need to touch and be touched, picturing her voice in his ear, pleading and crying for more. And it soothes him that Gold's secrets were well-accepted by Crystal; this makes Red shiver in disbelief, because if the serious and mature girl actually complied to Gold's requests—

Red decides to abandon that disturbing train of logic as he reads soft words and smiley faces in the end of sentences. And, before he can chicken out, he asks her to drop by someday. The answer to his question is fast – so fast that the pokégear almost falls out of his digits – he's startled.

It reads, _is tonight alright by you?_

He suppresses the urge to reply, _anytime you want to_—then his heart starts hammering in his chest and he feels his skin go terribly, terribly warm at the thought of having her over. His brain screams _control yourself_, but his cock doesn't care for control.

Red runs for the bathroom, with both his hands already working on his belt.

* * *

It's his opinion that the dinner he made sucks, but Yellow never complains, even going as far as to tell him that it's good (her compliment has him smiling wildly for the following ten minutes). The forks and knives clink against each other as he brings them towards the kitchen. She sits on a counter (but not with before asking if she can or not), and he flushes red, when he catches a slap of white under her pretty skirt.

He focuses on the task at hand, which is putting the dirty utensils in the washing machine; all the while Yellow chippers cheerfully about her life, about her uncle's, and then confides that it's her opinion that Blue and Green are dating. Red swallows.

"You don't say."

"I'm not sure," she whispers softly, cheeks a little darker than before, "I haven't been much time with her, but every time we hang out, it seems that we're always interrupted by Green. Blue's told me something about him being sick – " Red rolls his eyes, " – but besides that, I'm not sure."

"Don't worry about that," he replies to her, getting up and stretching casually. He notices Yellow's eyes on the stripe of skin that his shirt lets uncovered, and her tongue darts out shyly, in what he hopes is an innocent and accidental movement. It's hot, he tells himself. Her lips are _dry_—his brain scoffs, and he feels himself harden.

_Oh—no, no, no, no, no._ He drops his arms heavily, droopily, and her cheeks bloom when she catches herself mid-movement. There's a silence, and she gestures, flails about while trying to find the right words, the right apology. Red feels too hot, too curious to know what her tongue feels like.

He puts his hand near her left thigh; then the other, until he's somewhat trapped her under him, and then he peers shyly into her eyes. He's almost scared by the intensity in them; half-hidden shyness also peeks out at him, but is quickly suppressed.

"Can I kiss you?" Red asks, and only notices what's come out of his mouth when her eyes shy away from his. He gets ready to apologize, to say that he's just – he's just what?

He wants to bury a hole and get inside it. But then her lips open to whisper _yes_, and the hole-theory flies out the window when he leans in, slowly, almost as if he is afraid that she'll break.

It starts out chaste, with Yellow making soft noises, but he loses himself midway and once he is between her knees (and they both notice this fact; she tries to clamp her knees together, startled, and he apologizes before attacking again) the kisses get more rough, more open, and the thought that this is shy, kind, and innocent Yellow is the only thing that gets him to calm himself down, instead of grabbing her by the hips and having his way with her now.

She pulls apart to breathe, her forehead leaned on his shoulder, and Red is in near-disbelief, because, really, this is _Yellow _and he can't picture her doing things like this (well, he _can_, but there's a strong difference between dreams and reality).

"Can I try again?" he asks, very quietly, peering down to meet her eyes. He's faced with the sight of her delicate neckline, her lips parted for her to breathe better. Red disregards the fact that he has a great view down her shirt from where he is, but he still commits the nearly-graphic image to memory (for later use).

Yellow nods, but only after five seconds pass. He leans in and tries his best to keep it soft. But a kiss to him is like a battle, he figures that he should give it his best so that he can win—his tongue slips out, very quietly, very slowly so that he doesn't incommode her, and when she closes her eyes and lets him inside, he feels his knees weaken (in that moment, he is glad that he's leaning against her and against his kitchen counter).

But there's a problem; he doesn't want to stop, but if Yellow looks down, he's sure that he's going to die of mortification. He has two hypotheses—first, to excuse himself and take care of things, or second, deal with the consequences and enjoy this in its fullest. Red decides soon enough that it'll probably take a long time before he can have his way with her again, like this, so he embraces both Yellow and the discomfort of being bound in his jeans; her hands fist in his shirt at first, but then she shyly wraps her arms around his neck and he feels blissful.

It's about then that he realizes that Yellow isn't as innocent as she lets on, because, despite the crimson color that extends from her cheeks to her neck (and he wants to check if, under her shirt, she's red as well), her right hand drops from behind his neck and tortuously slowly, she drags it across his chest. He groans into her mouth, and feels her shiver against himself. Yellow moves away, leans her head on his chest—and he's suddenly afraid because she's _looking down_ and he doesn't want to come across like the filthy little pervert he feels like.

"Y – Yellow," he says, trying to disentangle from her soft grip without offending her, "I uh, d-do you want some t_—e—_a!"

His voice squeaks, high and it would've been hilarious if not for the fact that she's pushing her palm against his groin; her eyes shoot up to find his own, while he fights a losing battle with his lungs. She seems concerned, and her face is probably heating the whole kitchen by now.

"Does that hurt?"

Red inhales sharply from his nose, and all he can do is shake his head. He doesn't trust himself to speak, because he's never been _this_ crazed with hormones before. It's simple, though; the other times, all he had to keep company was the ghostly fantasy of Yellow, but now it's real, and it's a smaller, softer hand that touches him.

He wonders if his legs will hold him. He doubts his legs will hold him.

Something in his throat scratches when she closes the space between them, skinny bare legs suddenly, yet slowly, around his waist. He understands minutes after the funny feeling vanishes that he's groaning into her neck. He feels her hand hovering over his zipper, and suddenly this doesn't sound like a good idea anymore. Red fumbles, pushes her away with the best way he can: hands so bigger than her own grab her by the waist; he tries to render her immobile,, electricity in his fingertips and sweat in the back of his neck.

Yellow looks up at him, "…_please_."

He feels himself get hotter as she undoes his belt, delicate digits touching his skin with no need to. He stifles a grunt when he feels himself push against the tissue of his boxers, when he feels his jeans drop down smoothly until they settle a little below his hips—he has never felt so thankful to gravity.

This is the part where he wonders if she's thought about this as much as he (he doubts it, but still); he feels something rush to his head and he realizes it's a mix of nervous and excitement, with a big bright red bow of arousal around it. He's sure that he's more concerned than she is, but Yellow's face is red, redder than anytime he's seen before. He's not quite sure of what this means. And, with a pale, soft hand around him, his logic shatters into a million pieces; he's not going to find out anytime soon.

Something in his pelvis dances and he bucks into her with a half-whimper. Yellow stifles a surprised noise.

Both their sounds echo in his kitchen.

* * *

It reaches Gold soon enough, after three days (how exactly, he doesn't _know_): "Second base isn't bad."

Red's ears start heating; he doesn't quite manage to speak after that. The younger boy has a field day.

* * *

It takes him a week to realize that his predicament has turned much worse than before. Now that he has real memories to fuel his need of her, he wakes up hard every single day. It's shameful, but he keeps replaying the scenes in his head—hands, nervous but soft, her breath caught in her throat just like his, the moment in which he skidded across bliss and she kissed him, her cheeks dark crimson and her eyes dark yellow.

It's become standard procedure by now. Only now he thinks more about her mouth and less about her hands; and he can almost _feel_ the slow descend into sexed craziness as time passes. So he starts training more – to get his head clear – but his pokémon notice, too, and he gives up soon after accidentally burning down a tree.

* * *

His day starts with an unread message in his pokégear: _can I come over?_ He's startled out of his sleepy, narcotic-like daze, and his thumbs reply quick, like lightning, to her. The déja-vu he feels reminds him of soft fingers touching places he desperately needs them to touch. He sits up in his bed and avoids the kitchen for the rest of the day, while he waits for her to drop by announced but yet unannounced.

And when she does drop by, she kisses him in the mouth, harshly—but never without before asking. It surprises him, and before he can keep track of things, his hands are around the small of her back, pushing her closer (he needs her so much closer than this), rubbing small figures on her skin until she squeaks.

Then an idea strikes, and something in his brain shouts _control yourself,_ but then his cock shouts _this time we'll have her_, and it goes louder than his brain. It's ridiculous but he fingers the hem of her dress just slightly, just to give her an idea of what he wants. He does it just slightly because he doesn't want in any way to force her into this; he knows what she's like, and right now maybe he's influenced her or something—

Yellow breaks away to breathe, puts her head in his shoulder, her chin warm against his skin, and her hands palm his groin with uncertainty. He nearly jumps out of his couch, because this is all a repeat of something that has already happened—not that he minds. He absolutely doesn't.

Her heavy breaths in his ear have him panting with the exertion of not being able to just – just…

"Red," she half-says, half-whines, and throws her arms around him, settling her thighs just above _him_. The boy almost stops breathing, for a moment, when he feels her warm skin against the pressing in his jeans, when she whimpers so softly, when her arms tighten around his neck.

He's not sure he wants to do this anymore, now that they're so close, because maybe he'll hurt her, maybe he'll—Yellow shifts in his lap and his breath is knocked out of him again. Red makes a small noise against her neck while she moves just above him. He's hot and she's heavy in a good way. The feel of her just there, touching him through his clothes, makes him see white when he closes his eyes.

"C-can I – "

"…Y-yes," she replies quickly, shivering against him. It makes his heart melt, the fact that she doesn't even wait to hear the whole plea, and he'd appreciate her better if it were not for the fact that their skin is sticky and he's ready, so ready to move against her. Her small form trembles against his larger one, her hands on his shoulders as she gives a slight haul of the hips. It's instinct when his hands dart to her hips, then, trying to keep her close and far all the same. She gasps softly, and he regrets the quickness of the movement, but he still doesn't let go.

He kisses her, dips his fingers – so slowly – up her skirt, until she huffs into his mouth and cries his name. He feels the suave cloth of her underwear, the softness of her skin. It's the most fun he's had since winning the League challenge. Yellow gasps and he blushes when she calls out, "Red!"

He freezes against her, while she catches her breath in tiny inhales, small hiccups that have his skin tingling with effervescent desire. Maybe he hasn't given her enough foreplay, maybe it will hurt, maybe she won't like it—because even if he wants so desperately to move and reach something attainable to both of them, he won't do it if it means she's going to get hurt. Yellow kisses him chastely on the mouth, and nods against his neck.

"I – "

"I love you," she whispers, so, so softly against his shirt, and Red feels as if he's won the League again. Only, it feels better, it's a hot, smooth feeling that has him kissing her hard while his trembling hands run up her skirt, his hips tugging against hers while she moans. It's a delicate situation, and he asks her twice before taking off her dress. He slips the straps down her shoulders, kissing the skin as he goes. Her underwear is pretty, cute, and he has second thoughts for three seconds, before she takes out her brassiere.

His mind goes blank. He wonders – since when does Yellow have breasts – if this is alright for him. She looks up at him, and the image of her, in her panties, above him, is too much. Her mouth opens, and then she closes it, her cheeks red. Red wants to run his palm across her skin, but his hands are shaking. Yellow intertwines her fingers with his, and kisses him. His right hand slides across her skin, and the feeling of her has him even more in love.

He doesn't know when she does it, but his fly is open and Yellow is needy. With soft mewls and sharp intakes of air while he touches her, she grabs his shirt and pulls him down with a breathy whisper. She leans against him, smart hands wrapping around _him_. He catches a glance of her underwear on the floor.

The satisfaction, the tightness, the warmth, it all happens in a second; second which lasts an era. Red's hands fly to her hips, but she doesn't move. He know she needs to adjust, to fit to him, but it's such a rush, it's such an awesome feeling. When Yellow moves, every nerves of his body spark off, and he closes his eyes. He doesn't think he can keep them open. Yellow does a soft noise above him, while he tries to move with her, and she wraps her arms around his neck.

This is much better than when he does it himself—that's his only thought as he presses her harder against himself. He blinks, and keeps his eyes open to watch her. Yellow's a mess, above him, hair still caught in her scrunchie, shoulders high as she shudders and shakes, mouth open as he tries his best to bury himself on her.

They don't last long. Yellow calls out his name, her head hidden away under his chin, in his shoulder, and Red can't last after the sudden shift in weight. The aftermath is calm. He doesn't move – he doesn't think his legs work – and Yellow doesn't get off his lap. He kisses the top of her head, afraid that he's done something wrong. She got off, right? Which means—

"I love you too!" he says, urgently, as if he's forgotten to tell it before. Yellow giggles, and kisses him on the cheek. He thinks he can crack a joke, to alleviate the serious mood. He wants to touch her again. He doesn't think she'd mind: "I'm having a shower. Care to join?"

She kisses him again, this time on the mouth.


	2. Green & Blue

**2—  
Blue & Green**

…

When Green gets home, tired and cranky and so fed up with Daisy's baby talk, he expects a warm bath and some scotch, or something that will help him relax, after a rather stressful Christmas after-party. Instead, he notices his front door is open, and that someone is obviously having a blast jumping on his bed. His brain declares this day Official Shit Day of the Month as he all but runs towards his room, his fingers still deeply tightened around the shopping bags.

And when he stalks into his bedroom moodily, a deadly glare already in place, he expects – obviously – a burglar, or even Gold trying to bed some girl in his house, or something as farfetched as that (because it's not like Gold wouldn't try). He even waits for Red trying to surprise him with something like a battle, or Yellow trying to hand him cookies or, or –

The point is, he doesn't expect Blue to fall, breathless, onto the bed covers, wearing a brilliant smile and little else. The paper bags fall to the floor immediately as he sputters and absolutely does _not_ look at her underwear, nor does he stare at the amazing pair of breasts almost jumping out of the black piece. He doesn't do any of those; he just stares at the floor, suddenly interested in the beige carpet. She clears her throat.

"Admittedly," Blue says, matter-of-factly, "it's a little tight on the chest, but it's not so uncomfortable."

"I don't think that's the issue here," Green struggles to reply – his voice _doesn't_ crack at all, dammit – his knuckles white with effort. It doesn't look like he's noticed that he's let go of the bags, but it doesn't look like he's noticed anything besides Blue's breasts.

"Well, excuse me for having breasts," she says, and rolls her eyes as she _herself_ rolls on the bed, until it's her back against the mattress. She doesn't break visual contact, her blue eyes still very vibrant and clear, and almost nervous (but she's Blue, he's probably just misreading), "So, anyway, do you plan on moving anytime soon or do I have to do everything? Not that I _mind_." Her lips spread across her cheeks as she smirks at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, miserably trying not to notice the rush of blood flowing _away_ from his brain and _down_. Blue rolls on his bed again, and he laments having bought something so wide for once. Only when she kneels on the bed does he notice the lace panties. They match with the bra, and his brain just barely avoids short-circuit.

"Aren't you _happy_ I'm here?" she asks back, biting down on her lip and smirking wider. Her tongue darts out to lick at her lower lip, and he needs to tell himself that there are no innuendos there, that she's just _hot_ and her lips are _dry_ because he almost can't handle the mental images. "Oh, come off it, it's not like you haven't thought about this before." He almost squeaks miserably, but clears his throat to disguise the sound. His cheeks are very, very warm, and sadly they're not the only thing that's hot. "So, what was it like for you – water sex? Maybe you've had that, uh, nurse fantasy thing – it's supposedly very common with guys. I can't see _why_, but to each his own, right?"

"Could you please stop talking?"

"Could you please just get here and do me already? It's just that – yeah, you're hot, and I'm hot, we're hot together and there's no reason for you not to want me, so." She takes a breath; and sadly it's pretty apparent to Green that she's been _rehearsing_, and even worse, that she's absolutely right. Blue crosses her arms impatiently, and Green really needs to avert his gaze for the sixth time in like, five minutes. It's getting annoying and frustrating and why is he so bloody attracted to her? "Plus, I've brought handcuffs."

Fuck.

Green bends over and pinches his nose; all this blood rushing makes his face heat and his brain frizzle, but it also makes his nose go kaput. Green breathes through his mouth, silently cursing Blue all the while, until the woman in question just sighs and lies down again. "I seriously expected more from you than a nosebleed. You're such a virgin, Green – "

"Like _you_ aren't." It comes out of his mouth before he can actually parse what the _fuck_ he's just said, and he stands again, horrified of the repercussions, only to find her playing with a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, the kind he's seen in shady shops in Celadon, the biggest of smirks on her face. His cheeks flush harder.

"At least I don't show it."

"… Yes, I bet you're very proud of yourself."

"What, for not behaving like a ten-year-old? Please, I can embrace my sexuality at any given time. And, well, maybe I've had a few glasses of wine – " she giggles, then, " – but you wouldn't know just how convincing Crystal is when she's trying to get rid of someone just so she can _go and jump_ Gold—oh, because that's totally what they were doing, I could tell. I have a sixth sense for these things, you know."

"You're babbling," he helpfully points out, still looking at the carpet.

"That's because nothing is going according to plan, you twit." She turns to glance at him and he raises his eyes from the carpet to her wonderfully blue eyes. "For example, you were supposed to arrive later, when I would already be expecting you – you were also not supposed to have a stick up your ass and actually possess some libido. I mean – seriously? Have you even looked at me? Do you think that any ordinary male would turn this down? Are you _crazy?_"

"Aren't you the confident woman," he says, force of habit, and Blue just squints at him, furious and biting on her lower lip again, in a gesture that's far more appealing and sexy than it's supposed to be. She gets out of the bed, all long legs and smooth stomach and – god it's getting hot again – she steps forward, slinking and smooth, until she's far too close for comfort.

For some reason, Green can't find it in himself to move away; his legs are too stiff and he doesn't trust himself to touch her, to push her away.

And then her hand meets the side of his face, and she's warm and he's _so cold_ despite being hot, and nothing ever makes sense as he just gives up and gives in, grabbing her by the sides of her face and pressing his lips against hers. He can almost _hear_ her smirk as she wraps her arms around his neck, the smooth skin a delicious feeling against his sensitive, cold jaw.

Kissing Blue feels better than it probably should – she doesn't taste like strawberries like he'd thought once, immediately after waking up from one of his more … vivid dreams –, especially when her fingers climb up his hair and give soft pulls when he doesn't move to her pleasing. Green is still moist from the snow outside, the thinnest layer of water on his hair and hands and face, but Blue doesn't seem to mind, not as she peppers his jaw with kisses and nips.

She's far better at this business than he is; her hands are already unbuttoning at his shirt, and Green hadn't noticed being stripped of his jacket, but the god damn thing is on the floor and her hands are under his shirt, warm and making his toes curl inside his shoes. Green pulls away from her kiss, breathless but not willing to admit that there is something she's so much better at doing than _he_ is, and he bites at her lobe, softly testing the waters. He's been told by – someone with far too much sexual experience for his age – that, and quote, _girls like it when you bite—doesn't matter where, as long as it's good, yeah?,_ so that's exactly what he does; bites and hopes to god he's not doing something she hates, because he sure as hell isn't going to go through this again.

But Blue doesn't hate, in fact, her hands tighten around the lapel of his white shirt, and she pulls until he has to hold her for balance. His hands are on her naked waist and he – he's not _panicking_ but he isn't comfortable, he doesn't know what he's doing, but then he feels her breath against his cheek, "Do it again."

And he does, experimenting with her, listening to her soft gasp for breath when he licks at her neck, softly. Blue's hands are still tight around his shirt, and his are still on her waist; they both stand immobile, frozen, the only movement being his as he presses his mouth against her skin. The house sounds very quiet and solitary, as his hands slide down her waist and settle on her hips, and Blue blinks and smirks and she's back to being her usual self, because she lets go of the shirt only to strip it out of him. Her short nails rake across the skin of his stomach and Green would almost hisses, were it not a sign of weakness; Blue bites at his shoulder, too, and he hears the softest giggle before a sharp _clack_ echoes throughout the room. He momentarily freezes before looking down – and even though all he sees is her chest, when he attempts to get his hands out of her hips, he finds that she's cuffed his hands together—around _her hips_.

Green reaches back and glares at her, trying his best to remain calm even though she has that smile on her face, even though her hands are roaming free through his stomach – it's like she has a fixation with his abs, or something. It's not easy maintaining the threatening look, though, not when she tells him that she needs a glass of water, and starts sinking to her knees, glancing up at him from below, her eyes so very innocent and wide –

"_What_ are you doing." His voice is strained but Blue just crawls away, like she isn't noticing the connotations of going down on her knees, and she gets up almost immediately; she smirks back at him before stepping out of his room. "_Where_ are you going."

"I've told you, I'm going to get a glass of water."

It's obvious this is some kind of twisted payback, and Green just squints at her before she leaves; he sits on the bed and glares towards the fuzzy handcuffs. The whole idea is ridiculous – it's not like she can just barge into his house and _demand_ sex – and yet, that's just what she's doing. Blue's being impolite and inconsiderate of him, as usual, and he can't say anything because he's aroused and warm and trying not to give in _again_, because a few shared kisses are more than enough for one day, and … frankly, he's tired. It's not that he's nervous or feeling afraid of the situation; he's Green Oak, he doesn't get _nervous_. That's stupid.

He's just tired.

Yes.

Of course that when, suddenly, he feels the press of her breasts against his back, there's another shift in mood and he struggles with both annoyance and stimulation. This is so unfair, the way she handles him, like he's some _doll_ of _fucktoy_ or – he doesn't know, nor does he care, for the proper term. Green's main concern at the moment is the sensual attention being paid to him; the way her hair smells the way her arms knot around his neck and don't let go as she leans in for a kiss.

"You're the most evil, egoistical, nonchalant, cold, bitchiest person I've met." It's his voice which echoes throughout the empty room, shattering through the silence like a bullet shatters through glass. Blue snickers in his ear.

"Was that your final statement, or should I hold back and wait for your official desistance?" Her voice is soft and her breath is minty and warm against his cheek as she speaks; when she inhales, Green can feel the press of her breasts better than before, and he shivers under her touch. He tells himself it's from the cold, because he was trained to survive everything, he was specifically told never to give in to the enemy, especially when his pride depends on it, but – "_Green,_" Blue says, grinding up against him, "I've been a bad, bad girl – "

And his heart nearly stops with mental pictures –

" – Don't you think I deserve to be punished?"

In a last moment of desperate _fuck you_, Green grunts out, "I'm the one with the handcuffs."

"That can be easily taken care of."

His brain goes dead as he blinks, the unstoppable and unstopping torrent of fantasies he didn't even know he had rushing through his thoughts and stealing away coherent … coherent anything. Green sinks back into her touch, his head leaning down on her shoulder, and presses his lips tight together when she bites at his neck. His fingers itch for her skin, but he can't touch her from where he stands, from where he's turning towards. So he gets up and turns to her, "Remove these."

Blue raises her eyes to his and grins, "No."

"You just said – "

"I'll take these off _after_ the second round. On the third round then," she replies, easily cutting him off and making his ears turn hotter than fire. "Deal?"

"I hate you very much," is Green's only answer as he turns to step away from the bed and into the bathroom.

"Ugh! Why do you always have to make things so hard on people! Jeez," Blue groans, and gets up, running after him; Green turns to look and greatly regrets it, because she's soft and curvy and _bouncy_ and god damn it all, his hands dart out to contain his crotch, and of _course_ Blue notices. The greatest of smirks run across her lips for a second, and she tries to disguise it, to no avail. " … You know I could take care of that for you, don't you, Green?"

The floor is very cold against his socked feet; he wonders how she manages it, barefoot. Green does his best to think about everything but the horrifying situation he's in. He considers the paint of his walls, the colour of his wooden floor, the wonderful picture of the snow outside –

She huffs and, in a quick step he isn't quite sure of how to understand, has her hand on his belt; she's still behind him, though, tip-toeing and with her chin on his shoulder. Her hands are warm as she undoes his belt buckle, and Green can only stare down in bafflement. Or shock. Or horror – and as he tries to step away, or break the cuffs, or _something_, her smart hands find his cock and Green sort of just – freezes on the spot. Her thumb slowly, _slowly_ makes its way across the length of it, and he shudders as she moves her fingers.

"If you hadn't been that much of a prick, we'd have done this ages ago."

"Stop killing the mood," he manages, voice hoarse and deep. Blue chuckles, clearly proud and amused that she's _winning_.

She kisses him softly on the shoulder as she applies her whole foot on the floor. Her hand is still in the same spot, pressing lightly and drawing lines; at a certain moment in time, her short nails rake across the flesh, and Green can't help but to groan. He brings his hands to his face and bites down on his palm. The feathery pink of the cuffs feels soft against his cheek.

"You can make noises, you know. I actually find it kind of hot." She brings her other hand to his wrist and tugs it away from his face. He's stronger than her, but for some reason, Green decides to acquiesce to her yearnings. "And – " she pumps him slow and he hisses, " – later, when we're _both_ having fun – if you know whattamean," Green chokes when her left hand – the free hand – lowers from his wrist to his stomach. She writes her name with her fingers and then _bites_ down on his shoulder.

The sensation is painful, but he can't _not_ groan. It seems like a current, recurrent occurrence – it's the first time he's ever talked so much to someone; it's the first time he's ever made those particular sounds.

" – I want you to call my name," Blue finishes, her breath splayed across his skin as her _two _hands wrap around his cock and pump. Green's knees shake embarrassingly, and he is not inebriated enough not to care, but for a moment her tongue darts out to lick at his ear, her breasts pushing against his back again, and the only rational thought on his head is, _she must be tiptoeing again_, before he bites down on his lip and groans embarrassingly loud.

Her hands leave him, and Blue has never looked so satisfied as she steps in front of him, her right hand white, and sticky, her smile bright, her cheeks flushed. She grabs him with her left and pulls him down for a kiss, and Green just lets her, his mouth open as he breathes; she bites at his lower lip and suddenly this isn't an innocent kiss, it's a tongue-and-delirious-feelings-kiss. To be fair, he doesn't know how to deal with these, so he just closes his eyes, feeling his skin even hotter than before, while she does that thing and –

"Hmm," she hums when she parts, leaving him to catch his breath. "What should we do next?"

"This counts as a round."

"No." Her answer is curt and stern, and she smirks at him. "You'll know what a round is, trust me."

"Yes," he says, back to his usual self, somewhat. "Trust the virgin."

Blue just rolls her eyes and goes to remove her bra; Green automatically looks away, flustered and _nervous_ because it's Blue's breasts, and he doesn't even remember that his cock is still outside of his boxers, between the folds of plaid tissue and jeans. He does remember, then, and proceeds to cover himself, tucking it inside his boxers again. It's tender, and he cringes just slightly – he's not supposed to show any signs of discomfort.

"You can look at me, you know. Did you expect we were going to this dressed? Well, I suppose some people do, and I won't mind doing it with you, of course. It's also pretty hot. Can you picture it? I certainly can – me in my favourite black dress and you with that super cute get-out you had when we were fourteen – " she pauses to breathe, and continues, much to his chagrin, "But … you can look at me, for now. I'm not that bad to look at, am I?"

Green doesn't say anything, nor does he move his gaze onto her. Blue just sighs and heads out to his bathroom; he hears the water running and hope is born in his chest, that maybe she's done, and maybe she's disappointed—soon, that hope becomes bitterness and he darts out to _just do_ something about it. Blue's reflection on the mirror smiles warmly at him, and she's _topless_ and _hot_ and _beautiful_ (not that he'd ever tell).

"I'm just washing my hands, cutie," she says, giggling, and turns to him, her hands on her hips. He gulps as he looks away again. His throat is dry. And to add to the humiliation, he doesn't know where to put his hands when she wraps her arms around him. There aren't many safe places, and he can't place them on her hips again without pressing the blasted cuffs against her stomach. "Why, were you afraid I was going away?"

He'll never admit that the prospect of spending the rest of the night alone was not appealing. Especially not after … that.

Green just continues to avoid her eyes, until Blue presses her hands on his cheeks and _forces_ him to look at her again. She looks exasperated as she presses closer to him, the chain between the cuffs digging into her skin softly. "Why are you so stubborn?"

"Why are you so selfish?"

There's a silence, and Blue just rolls her eyes, unable to deal with the seriousness of it all; her hands leave the side of her face to lower across his back, until she's dipping them inside his pants. Green nearly jumps when her nails rake across the skin of his rear, and he feels himself turn red when she mutters, "Hm, very _nice_."

Blue kisses him then, again, and this time Green lets her do it properly; it's the whole shebang as she pushes him into the bedroom again, while she pushes his pants down with extreme talent (and, he supposes, because it's _Blue_, he doesn't find her talent to undress men all that odd). Green's hands are still bound and hesitant to touch her anywhere, at least until Blue groans, fed up, and grabs his wrists and pulls them over her head, until the link is behind her naked back.

It's then they fall to the bed – Blue's on top of him, smiling like a minx, and Green still has issues with her chest, so he just looks to the side until she kisses the side of his neck feverishly. Her mouth is hot and she whispers tiny things while her lips work on his skin (_I like your cologne_ or _next time we'll try chocolate _or _I'm so awesome because I start things_). Green's hands find their way onto her hips and they rest there while she kisses him. When she tugs on his earlobe, his nails rake across her skin and Blue writhes against him, all soft and warm, and he tightens his hold on her, because he's no longer tender, and her movements are way too alluring.

Blue shivers and murmurs in his ear, and Green does his best not to flinch. His skin is sensitive, his groin is sensitive, and he doesn't think he can handle all this _contact_ without exploding. "Green," she whispers, her breath hot and her teeth sharp and her tongue wet. He doesn't think of how her tongue would feel in other places— She grabs his hands and pulls them over herself, until his arms are over his head, and Green just sharply inhales when she straddles him, busily working with the cuffs. He feels one hand free, and sighs of relief, until she grabs his wrist and cuffs him to the metal of the bed.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me," he groans, and pulls at the link with a frown. Blue doesn't even take the time to crack a joke or a flirty reply as she kisses him, harsh and fast, before her hands dart towards his belt buckle _again_ (and he's just buckled it, too). "Blue – "

He is interrupted by himself; a groan, deep and throaty and – he bucks into her; she just smiles and kisses him again. When she pulls back, the smile's gone, and her face is very serious. Almost as if she's actually considering taking the situation _seriously_. But with a hand around his cock, there is not much Green can think about, so the thought is soon forgotten, soon replaced by the soft flesh of her thighs as she moves against him.

He's nestled against her thigh; close enough to push against the fabric of her lace underwear but _not close enough_, so when Blue covers his eyes with – he's not sure what, actually, he can only listen to her moving, and he realizes she's taking those off. Her hands shift against him, quickly, and he feels his cheeks turn hot when he finds that she's putting a condom on him – she came prepared. But she hasn't taken his pants off; nor does it seem like she wants to, because the next second, Blue takes away his tie from his eyes (so that's what she was using to make him go blind) and sits on him with a muffled moan.

"Whoa," she says, gasping, "You're bigger than I thought – perfect everywhere, aren't you, Green?" He's biting down on his lip to avoid moaning or groaning or something embarrassing like that, but she's tight and hot and – not that he'll ever tell her, but he finds her perfect, too. Sometimes. Not always. Green pulls at the metal link again, desperate for physical contact, and he goes as far as to flex his legs, just to _feel_ something. Blue just smirks and leans slightly closer, her hands on his chest. She's not moving, and that almost _hurts_, and she _knows_ just how his head is spinning. "Hmm," Blue hums with a pleased smile, "Aren't we just – "

Her tease becomes a moan when he tries to kick down the bed or thrust up, and she very positively shivers; the skin of her breasts is freckled with goosebumps. The imagery makes the situation ever so pleasant, and Green breathes in through his mouth.

"That was cheating," she says, before doing _something_ with her hips that has him rolling his eyes and tightening his jaw. Green is forced to realize that he's losing his virginity with _Blue_, and well, the first time isn't supposed to have handcuffs, and this is near-rape, or something. He desperately needs something to focus on besides the heat and the way his skin is sparking off at the minimal movement she makes.

Blue's hips roll, slowly, and Green's head goes blank; his brain distinctly screams something at him, but all he knows is that he very much wants to touch her with his hands, and that this beats any dream he's ever had about any sexual situations. Blue, above him, is flushed and biting on her lip as she rides him, slow but _strong_, and Green doesn't want to let go, he doesn't want to come before her, because he's supposed to be the one in minimal control of everything, _as usual_, because God knows neither Red nor Blue ever think about plans –

"Green," Blue hisses, her voice cracking and pleading as her hands pull on his hair – she kisses him, her skinny arms wrapped around his neck, her breasts against his oversensitive skin, her hips quick and making him work for it, at the same time, and he just can't. With a final, desperate pull on the _god damned_ link, Green thrusts up, feeling the muscles flex and complain, pained from the overexertion, and everything around him goes white.

When Blue pulls apart to breathe, her forehead on his shoulder, her breath on his chest, Green leans against the metal frame of his bed. It's cold, but he's too hot, and too tired, and too frustrated (despite having an orgasm? Makes no sense), so he just thinks, ah, screw this, and gasps to catch his breath. It's undignified that something so primal and … unproductive has him so tired, but he needs air.

Blue bites on his ear, and whispers, "You know what, if you had that much fun – " he huffs indignantly, but feels himself harden again, " – then imagine _me_," she says, and rolls her hips again, until Green starts pulling at the cuffs again. She seems awfully amused. He isn't very.

"I didn't think it possible to humanely hate an object this much," he replies, and kisses her back. She makes to unlock the fuzzy pink evil object. "I'll give you at least that." He rubs at his wrists, and grins just barely, snaking his arms around her waist.

"So, about that third round? You know, the one in which I'll be the one wearing the cuffs?"

"… What?"

"I think that should be now."

" … Okay."


	3. Gold & Crystal

**A/N:** Mark and Dr. Mason are characters from an old Gameboy pokémon card game. I needed some OCs, but I dislike using them in short stories, so have them instead!

In case anyone feels uncomfortable with 16-year-old-sex, then just pretend this is an alternate reality or something, I don't even care, I'm too _tired_ to care. This took far more time than it should have. I suck, I know, but I have an excuse. Gold/Crys is indeed my manga!OTP and I thought that a smutty fic simply wouldn't do – considering Crys' personality and all the potential for a sappy fic (also losing one's virginity in a pool table is so undignified for someone of her calibre, right?) – so this spanned into 19.800+ words. Contains a handjob, fingering, dry-humping, oral sex, and regular vanilla sex. Just throwing that out there.

Unbetae'd— so _do _expect mistakes.

**A/N2:** Cross-posted at the kink meme. Had to take this chapter down after a ffnet mistake, hope everyone can read it now!

* * *

**3—  
Gold & Crystal**

…

Crystal walks inside the bar, fidgeting with her jacket and with the (surprisingly) short dress, and greets the bartender warmly. She's been around for a month, and Boon Island is a small place. There is a village – Two Island – by the south. That's where she gets provisions. Gold barely ever steps out of the house, except to play pool; always training, always working for something she isn't quite sure of. The statue incident marked him far more that it should have.

The small bar is empty – it's noon, after all – but she's here on business.

"Let me guess. A bottle of Jack Daniels for Kimberly?" Mark chuckles to himself as he moves to the back room. Crystal doesn't even have to nod to his question; Mark is just that good. While she waits, someone else enters the small pub.

"Crystal, m 'dear, it's nice to meet you." The elderly man sits by a stool with a little grin.

"Doctor Mason," she says, respectfully. She doesn't sit down. Mark won't take long. However, the moral repercussions of the … alcohol buying are irritating. It shouldn't bother her that she's buying alcohol – while she's only sixteen, but it's for a seventy-year-old woman, not for her.

All thoughts are lost when Mark returns, setting a glass bottle on the counter. "I'll put it on her tab."

Crystal thanks him, greets them both goodbye, and leaves through the small glass door. While Mark's bar is a nice place to sit in, play some pool and drink some coffee, Crystal much prefers the market. She checks her list, and moves to buy some moomoo milk, some lava cookies and soda pop, just so that Gold won't have to complain about drinking something healthy, like milk or lemonade. Sometimes, she does worry about his alimentation, and his health. While she is_obviously_ capable, Gold is irresponsible and fairly juvenile when it comes to taking care of himself.

She pays the woman and makes to return to Cape Brink. Thankfully, the bags aren't heavy; otherwise she would take much more time than needed to climb the small pathway. Her concerns about Gold haven't faltered. She takes care of him like a mother, or … a wife. Crystal certainly doesn't mind. If she did, she wouldn't have volunteered to help Earl's orphanage, but still. Taking care of Gold is harder than taking care of children.

_Children, _she muses, while she trudges through the hill, watching the oddish and the bellsprout play, _are easier to take care of than a training maniac. _She hasn't seen him so intent on something ever since he jumped into a time-space-continuum vortex.

… Crystal really hopes he hasn't got any funny ideas this time.

She reaches for the cot's knob and walks in. He's not inside; he's in the backyard, training. Crystal doesn't need to check up on him to know that, but she still does it, just to be safe. His shirt is on the floor, by the door. Gold is in mid-attack, his typhlosion just behind him, focusing on a makeshift target he's painted on the wooden fence. His skin is gleaming in the sun, tanned and bright with sweat, and Crystal's cheeks flush horribly as she walks inside again, hurriedly.

She places the bags on the counter and blames her sudden blush on the heat.

* * *

"It's really nice, being alone. Don't you think?" Gold asks her, once she's made dinner. Crystal's grip on her fork falters. Gold doesn't strike her as the kind of guy who likes peace and quiet. Gold strikes her like the Goldenrod kid, like the superstar in his element. Like … Ruby, the small boy she hasn't met but heard of. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm still waiting to perfect my attack, of course. I miss Johto. Kanto is too … rural At least this part." He makes a face. Crystal goes back to picking at her potatoes. "But you know. It's a breather. After that Pryce incident and stuff? It's a nice rest."

"You haven't rested much."

"Unlike yourself." She bites her lip, flushing. He's right. She hasn't been training half of what he has. Gold harrumphs awkwardly, and proceeds. "Relax, super-serious girl. It was a joke. Without you here, I'd already be dead or something." She resists the urge to laugh. He smirks at her. "I can't cook, or keep this place clean, or … I don't know, learn some strategies? I can't do that." Crystal says nothing, but smiles warmly at him. His compliment has been acknowledged.

By the time they've finished dining, she makes to grab for the plates, so that he can wash them later (she isn't his maid, and that's something they both talked about). The window to the backyard is open, and she can see hints of sun still left, although the sky is pink and blue. She leans over the table to gather the plates while Gold stares outside, thinking. When she meets his eyes, he's staring back into hers. Crystal quickly averts her gaze, and walks towards the sink, where she places the plates calmly. Her arms are bare and full of goosebumps. She doesn't know why; it's _hot. _It's _warm_. When she tiptoes to open the cabinet above, she can feel his gaze over her body (she momentarily regrets wearing short-shorts). Her cheeks heat, and she falters, hesitating.

Not a second after that, he's behind her. She can smell the grass stains on his shorts, and she can smell the cologne he's somehow smuggled into the house (because Crys knows the market doesn't sell his favourite brand). The heat multiplies, in the air, when he places one hand on the small of her back and very purposefully touches her arm in order to reach for the clean plates they haven't used. Crystal freezes while he places the plates there, her eyes widened, her knuckles white from grabbing the edge of the counter. She chides herself for expecting _something _out of this meaningless gesture, when he steps forward and presses the whole front of him against her back. His left arm leaves her back and settles besides her left hand, grabbing the counter. His right continues setting the plates on the shelf above them.

Crystal closes her eyes and pretends she's not blushing. They stay that way for about a minute; a minute which extends into an hour. By the time he's finished, Crystal breathes a sigh of relief, and then catches herself. It comes out like a stifled noise, and Gold's right hand reaches for her own. He's leaning down. She can tell, because he's taller her than her now—and he leans further down, until his chin is on her shoulder.

"You're done," Crystal stutters, her voice coming out nervous and quiet. Even as she whispers, the sound seems loud in the silent kitchen. He nuzzles her neck, and Crystal feels her legs shaking only slightly. What kind of catching expert is she, if the mere touch of him makes her best features turn to mush?

"Not done," Gold replies. His voice is husky. His lips tickle her neck and his breath tickles her ear. She doesn't know what to do, so she just sighs. It's a long, drawn-out sigh, and she can feel his right hand leave hers. Instead, he places it on her stomach. She very positively stiffens, and relaxes when he kisses the side of her cheek. His fingers play with her shirt before his thumb pulls it up a few inches; just enough to expose some skin, just enough that when he lets his fingers slide by. Crystal jumps. The touches are too much – she can feel his mouth, his breath, his fingers on her skin, edging closer to the elastic band of her shorts – she can feel his hips pressing harder against hers, can feel his left hand on her hip. It's a desperate gesture, but it's sweet at the same time. Something in the back of her mind tells her that nothing like this is Appropriate, but she just arches her back.

He drags his lips from her cheek to her neck, licking and biting, and holds her closer (she didn't think it possible, to be closer to him).

"What if we can't save them?" he breathes, faintly and pitifully. Crystal's eyes open. Gold buries his forehead into her shoulder, his arms around her. "Failure is not an option."

Crystal breaks free from him and turns, meeting his eyes, ignoring the way her thigh touches his own. Her cheeks are flushed and she can still feel the comfortable tingle of his kisses dabbing at her skin, but she puts her best glare on. He doesn't even falter.

"Don't say that. Of course we'll save them. Isn't that what you're training for? Isn't that why I'm training, too? No one will leave them behind." She only barely avoids calling him an idiot.

Gold smiles, tragically, and steps further, decidedly trapping her against the counter. She can feel the edge digging into her back, the marble a little cooler than the air around them. It's different – very much so – being close to him like this. Managing to see his eyes as his hands settle on her waist. Seeing the odd quirk of his mouth before he drags his tongue across his lips, like she's a particularly delicious treat. It's different and it feels different when he's grabbing her by the chin and kissing her.

Crystal is not experienced (and she hopes he isn't as well), but there's surprisingly little to think about when he's so _good_ with his mouth. She can feel his hands lowering from her waist to her ass, and doesn't even consider pushing him away, which is unlike her usual self. She can't understand. The horrible things attraction will do to someone. Gold's hands are big and they fit nicely against her curves, and he pulls away and groans into her shoulder when Crystal moves slightly against him. She gasps – forgets to breathe. It's not her fault – it's _his_. If it weren't for him making her melt and shiver against him …

"Let's stop," Gold says, from her left. His breath ghosts across her skin. His cheeks are flushed, and he storms off to his room before she can react. Crystal is confused, hurt, and a little overwhelmed, and she brings her hands to her face, hoping to cool her cheeks down. It doesn't work.

* * *

It's not the first time that it happens. In the month they've been here, there have been several incidents.

She blushes ten times a day. He walks in on her getting out of the shower. She inadvertently falls asleep against him. He keeps picking ambiguously dirty things to say.

Little things like that. Sometimes he will kiss her in the cheek, watch her flare up like a _rocket_ (…poor choice of words), let his hands drift when they are close together, training. Sometimes, she will let him, but –

But never to the extents of the day before. To Crystal, sex is not the Great Unknown, but she's just sixteen yet. She's certainly heard about it, and so what if there are people out there who do it sooner than sixteen? She certainly doesn't have anything to do it.

This is what she desperately tells herself as she falls to the grass, exhausted and sweaty, after a particularly rough training session with her meganium. Her mind chides while her heart roars, and the nerves imbedded in her skin complain that she better get hot and heavy with him, or else. It's horrible. He's been avoiding her. She can tell. It's not like it's subtle, anyway. They spend their days together, so it's easy to tell when one's avoiding the other.

He leaves her a _note_ saying that he is going out shopping. A note. _Shopping_. He can't shop to save his life. Crystal stares at the sky and breathes in the smell of summer and grass. She doesn't know what is going on with her. Crystal is the responsible one. The shy one. The chaste one. She's not supposed to be thinking about the Great Unknown. It is – she supposes – the thing he's best at. Gold is a master at innuendos, and if he catches her unaware, he can and will reduce her to a trembling mass of stuttering words. Some people say he's obnoxious. Crystal thinks it's part of his charm. She hates to admit it, but he's personified appeal. He's got a way with words she doesn't, and the way he manipulates his facial expressions to match …

Crystal covers her face with her hands, feeling the sun beat down on her. It's shameful that she falls in love with a pervert and a liar, someone who's broken the law before they were even _twelve_. Somehow, she can't bring herself to care. Silver cares enough for the two of them … But Silver is … Crystal rubs at her eyes, determined not to cry. They'll save them. They _have_ to. She grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it up, until her ribs are bare. The soft summer breeze is nice against the damp skin, and she only undresses herself because she's alone.

She makes to move towards the shower, but she's too limp and warm to actually want to move. It isn't like she's lounging around. She's simply too tired; it's not like she has to _move_. It's not like she has anything to do except train, and she's done her share for the day. What else should she do? She can bake, or wash the dishes, or reread her pokémon anatomy books, or fall asleep in the small couch by the kitchen. Waiting for him to return. Curl up in the couch after a shower, reading a book – that seems so nice.

She sits up and takes off her shoes and her socks, watching her toes uncurl and flex. The grass tickles her, and she smiles just slightly. Her mood is bad, and she's angry and hurt at him, and very possibly … aroused from the sudden heated touches (although she doesn't want to accept something like _that_). She needs peace, and she needs to hold hands with him.

It's nothing new. She likes him. She's liked him ever since she's met him. It's not surprising that she's willing to pursue an amorous relationship with him … It's not surprising that her back arches when he touches her, or that her arms goosebump when he breathes in her ear. It's not surprising that she doesn't push him away when he kisses her out of the blue, fishing for a reaction.

Crystal gets up and stretches, until her shoulders pop delightfully, and makes to the house. Her eyes catch onto the makeshift target he's painted onto the fence. Almost immediately, she feels her eyes prickle. She doesn't want to cry because the two of them suddenly touched _farther_ and _hotter_ than before. She doesn't want to cry because of a stupid boy. Crystal is _better_ than this. And yet, she can't help but to start sobbing as soon as she steps inside and spots him getting inside.

His eyes fixate onto her stomach, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. Regardless of the wetness of her cheeks, she feels them instantly heat up. Her hand darts to her eyes, and she tries to wipe them of tears before he realises she's been crying. It doesn't work.

"What happened?" He's serious; he walks toward her, intent on figuring things out. Crystal readies herself for the sudden physical contact. It never happens. He stops a full step away from her, looking intently at her eyes. She presses her palm harsher against her cheeks; she can't bring herself to pull her shirt down, even though she's embarrassed. More important, more dramatic subjects are at play at the moment. " … Are you hurt? Crystal?"

At the mention of her name, Crystal comes undone.

"I twisted my ankle." She doesn't know why she says it. She doesn't know why she lies. Apparently, anything is preferable to confessing to him that she loves him enough to cry about him. It's obvious that he matters the world to her; after all, Crystal doesn't remember the last time she cried. Gold stares at her, bites down on his lip (she suppresses a sudden shiver), like he's planning something difficult. Crystal blinks, waiting, and then half-steps towards him.

"Whoa, whoa, easy," he mutters, clumsy and nothing like the suave playboy he's supposed to be. His arms shoot out to catch her, twisting around her ribs, setting her nerves on edge when his skin touches hers. His cheeks are flushed when she glances up at him. Gold holds her like a ragdoll, afraid to touch her. She's offended. She's _angry_. "You shouldn't walk if you twisted your ankle – "

Crystal grabs the end of his shirt and tangles her fingers with the fabric. He shuts up, concerned and nervous. She purposely touches him, briefly, and blushes when the taut skin of his stomach comes in contact with her fingers. His grip on her falters slightly. She can feel his fingers trembling. She tiptoes and presses her lips to his, just slightly, so he can get an idea (and in that moment she feels the spiked exclamation of her brain: **_she's_**_ initiated something for once_). Gold stiffens, and stops grabbing her by the ribs in order to grab her by the shoulders. He pushes her away, slightly, and when she opens her eyes, she notices his cheeks are very red. It makes her feel appreciated and slightly proud, but he doesn't let her near him.

She sighs and grabs his wrists, pulls his hands down. His eyes are on her stomach again.

"We should talk," Crystal whispers. She doesn't dare look up.

"About what?"

The blue-haired still hasn't let go of his wrists. She doesn't know how to proceed. Should she take the clinical, cold, professor's aide route, or the flustered, shy girl route? She's never been this confused. Not even when time was broken and the temperature was icy cold, and the masked man turned out to be Pryce … not even then … She brings his hand to her face and places it there. Crystal licks her lips and tries her best to proceed, trying her best to ignore his fingers playing with her hair.

"Crystal. What do you need to talk about?" Then, quieter: "Do you want me to get you some ice?"

"… Sure."

"Go sit down in the couch while I get it," he tells her, and hurriedly turns away to head to the kitchen.

Crystal sits down, defeated, and runs a hand over the couch's soft fabric. Her head leans back, she closes her eyes and, in a moment of strange out-of-characterness, she sets her left foot on the small wooden coffee table in front of her. It's strange how much she pictures herself living placidly like this … with her books, her computer, a connection to the BOX and Gold. She can picture it. But it's tragedy after tragedy. No one seems to care enough to do something. No one except for _them_.

She almost jumps, startled, when Gold's hands wrap around her left foot, delicately. He's sitting in the coffee table, grabbing an ice cube with his bare hands, dragging it around her ankle. Her cheeks heat as she curls her toes. The ice is cold. She supposes it's obvious, because, after all, it's _ice_. But she's surprised and a little flustered that a melting block of ice will make her so responsive to his fingers on her leg.

"I couldn't find anything to wrap the ice in. Sorry."

"That, that's fine," Crystal breathes out, her knuckles white from gripping the couch. Gold slows down, glances up at her. It's like she never kissed him. It's like five minutes ago never happened. She hates it. When she feels his fingertips dragging across the skin, her shoulders stiffen. She swallows. The ice block has completely melted, and he's just dragging his wet fingers across her ankle. It's impossible for him not to have noticed. It's impossible.

He takes another ice cube from the bowl beside him, and dries his left hand expertly in her leg. When he isn't looking, Crystal curls her toes again. The attention he is giving her is inadequate and impossibly sensual. He's doing it on purpose. The thought alone makes her ankle tingle deliciously. She leans back on the couch again, melting to a puddle. She doesn't close her eyes, though.

"Where were you?" she whispers.

He glances up at her.

"Pool—I, I went to play some pool. I needed to relax." Read: _I was probably too turned on to be around you_. Crystal blinks, focusing on the ceiling. The heat is making her drowsy, and even though she's still sticky, she doesn't know if she should fall asleep. It's not a big deal, to take a nap. Most locals do, in the summer … She hooks her chin in her own shoulder, letting her head fall sideways, and does her best to stare at him. Her eyes are heavy.

"At six in the morning?"

Her voice is terribly drowsy.

She hopes he doesn't notice it.

"Your ankle isn't twisted, liar," he murmurs softly, almost lovingly, before dragging his hands across her leg. She barely feels his fingers, and only inhales sharper when he presses a little. Crystal's retort is lost when she falls asleep with a soft mumble and a moan of his name.

* * *

Her hair is down. Her shirt too, and the fact that he cares enough to dress her properly makes her smile warmly. She's still in the couch, but Gold is beside her, also asleep. They aren't touching, which displeases her. Crystal very carefully leans over and lets her head fall on his shoulder. He smells of boy cologne and sea, which tells her he was probably out swimming. It's normal. For a boy whose house was right next to a body of water, it's normal that he's an extraordinary swimmer.

His shoulders are so wide. Her cheek is flat against his right shoulder as she curls her legs under her bottom. She links one arm with him and lets her head fall once more. Touching him is strange, but it makes her feel whole. It's so different, the way one can touch another. This is fine. This is just fine – being with him. But she will get flustered if he starts dipping his hand inside her shorts, thumbs circling the bones of her hips, or if her grabs her by the chin and kisses her until she's gasping for air.

What is the big difference between it? She can't understand –

"Crystal."

His voice is sleepy, like someone who's just woken up. Gold leans over her and presses a kiss to her jawbone, and then continues down. Crystal doesn't know if she's dreaming, but that seems more likely. It isn't normal for someone who avoids physical contact so blatantly to be kissing her like this a mere hour later. Crystal, however, doesn't complain. She wants this. Somewhat. If this is the only way she can participate in a relationship with him, then … It's fine. She doesn't mind. Sure, she's embarrassed, but … but …

Gold's hand is climbing up her neck, grabbing her hair and pulling softly down. _It shouldn't feel so good, to have your hair pulled,_ she thinks, but only sighs when he starts pushing her down, until she's lying flat on the couch. His hand is still in her hair. He seems to like doing it, and in the back of her head a small voice tells her to wear it down more often. Her mind goes blank when he finally kisses her; it's the whole thing, too. His tongue darts out, insistently, until Crystal responds to him.

They part to breathe. Crystal takes advantage of his great hair and runs her fingers across it. Shyly, like she doesn't want to mess up his hairstyle. It's obvious that he's the aggressive one in this relationship, if she can call it that. It's when she feels his hands pull her shirt up that she realises that he's perfectly ready to cross the Great Unknown. His fingertips are rough and his hands are large. Gold drags his tongue across her belly button and she can't help but to arch further into his touch. It's so strange but so common to … to …

When he manages to pull out her shirt, completely, he throws it on the floor. She doesn't even have the time to be embarrassed that she's lying beneath him, and her _bra_ is showing, and maybe he'd been expecting lace and black, but she's wearing a white sports bra, like _always_ – she's a normal, practical girl, unlike the girls from the magazines she _knows_ he's been keeping under his mattress.

His mouth is on her navel, and when his tongue paints a delightful curve on her hip bones, Crystal can't help the moan that spills from her throat.

Her eyes open –

* * *

– She's been sleeping against the couch's arm.

Gold is staring at her from the opposite end of the couch, his whole face red, his hand in front of his mouth, like he's horrified or ashamed (or aroused, but she wants to discard that possibility as soon as she thinks of it). She's so surprised she can't even word a question, but he answers anyway: "You … were sort of … making strange noises and—" There's a pause. Crystal knows from experience that when Gold refuses to say something, it's usually because it's Really Bad and/or related to the Great Unknown That Is Sex. So she just gets up and runs towards her bedroom. Once there, she locks the door, feels her cheeks, and sits down on her bed.

He is never going to let her live this down, even if they _both_ want to. From now on, every time she will groan or moan because of an injury, he will blush. From now on, every time she will look at him, she will _remember_ the face of the Gold in her dream, and then _she_ will blush.

Crystal buries her face in her pillow and wonders – _when have I lost control?_

* * *

The next morning, she wakes up early; early enough to make sure she doesn't bump into him on her way out of her room, late enough to have had a good night's sleep. She takes a shower, lukewarm water making her feel even more drowsy in the morning heat, and makes sure to get dressed (the days of waltzing around the house in a towel have been over since the first week, when he ran into her getting out of the bathroom, still dripping).

She takes her tea with some milk, and makes sure to leave a note telling him that she is going to try and find some tiny mushrooms, because she's sure that their pokémon can beneficiate from new moves. She's out of the house as soon as she can. Crystal hasn't felt so conflicted ever since she messed up her legs, and even that seems insignificant when compared to fumble-y touches in kitchens and stolen kisses when she's _trying_ to train.

She does the usual routine; shopping for food, lemonade and whiskey (for when Kimberly drops by), but instead of returning home immediately, she decides to stick around Mark's bar. If the man finds it unusual or strange, he doesn't show it. Crystal asks for a cup of coffee, because she particularly dislikes staying inside shops or cafés without ordering anything, and then stares at the black drink. It reminds her of his hair, so black and soft and … she picks up the tiny spoon that is settled in the saucer, and stirs it until the cream is properly mixed. It still doesn't distract her, but at least the dark beverage isn't as black as it was before. She lets her cheek lean in her left hand as she stares outside the window.

"Is there something bothering you?"

Crystal blinks and turns her head to the side, finding Mark. He's cleaning a glass with a rag, and leans against the counter, staring at her. She manages to shake her head at him, definitely not thinking about Gold pressing her up against the counter and …

"You look a little upset. Is there something I can do?"

"No, I'm fine. A little distracted, is all." Crystal smiles a little. She's been distracted by promises of pleasure, promises she knows she can't keep thanks to her treacherous brain and thanks to the lucid images that snake their way inside her mind. So yes. She is distracted. She can't even walk through the kitchen without wondering whether he has some kind of fantasy regarding pushing her onto surfaces and trying to get his hands under her shirt and/or skirt.

"I bet. With what all that training and stuff, right? Kimberly is one tough cookie. I bet you guys are really tired. Just yesterday, Gold came by when I was closing up and asked me to play pool. Can you believe it? He stayed up till four!" Mark gives a small laugh and sets the glass down on the counter, along with the others. "He must've been really wound up if he was still up, I guess. You two should take a time-out. Especially you."

"Me?"

"Yeah," Mark says, slightly confused, "Gold kept mumbling something about you when I asked. He said he was pushing you too far."

Crystal blushes, fumbles with her teacup, and sets the money on the counter before practically running out of the bar.

* * *

By the time she gets home, she hears the shower running. Crystal feels a little guilty for feeling relieved – relieved that he isn't around to witness her be clumsy and completely non-Crystal. She wonders where her incredible super-serious-power went, and then remembers that Gold is doing all of this to her. Crystal sets the groceries on the kitchen table and plants her hands on the counter, making a promise with herself.

"No more fooling around," she says, and for added measure, hits the counter again. The reflection of her eyes is stubborn and it warns the cupboard's glass that she has made-up her mind about this. Either they drop this – or they pursue it actively. She has come to accept that maybe she would like to chase _something_. But if he doesn't let her, then she doesn't care about it. Gold knows that if he doesn't become the most active in this relationship, then she certainly won't, and then they won't get anywhere.

"_You're home_?" Gold asks, from behind her; his voice is surprised and …

Crystal turns around, readying herself to ask if he's heard anything he shouldn't, like, oh, she doesn't know, "no more fooling around", and only then does she realise he's naked. In a towel, yes, but still painfully naked, and she can see his _chest. _She can see his chest, and his arms, his left hand tightly holding the white bath towel, and it doesn't escape her that he is blushing harder than _she_ is. Crystal hurriedly stares at a very interesting pile of dishes by the sink.

"I went shopping," she says, and her voice dies half-way through the sentence. Crystal feels her neck, her ears and her cheeks reach what must be a boiling point. Something Like This isn't _supposed_ to happen, because she's just made her Super Definitive Decision about this. He isn't supposed to come along and make her doubt herself again. But, god damn it, there are drops of water running down his chest! "I brought you lemonade." She doesn't know why she doesn't turn away instead of making him stick in the periphery of her sight. She supposes it's because it's delectable … "They were out of soda pop."

"Thanks," he says, and his voice cracks uncomfortably too. Gold harrumphs. "I didn't think you'd be home so early. Since – you know – you said you were picking mushrooms. That usually takes time. I mean, it's not like I was hoping you'd take long, because I wasn't—"

"Yes, I know, thank you," she squeaks.

There is a small silence. Gold is still with his hand on the fridge door, staring expectantly at her. None of them dare moving, because that will break the mood. Crystal doesn't want to break the mood. But, while she really wants to get away … she wants to bring him into a tight hug.

"Can I kiss you?"

Or … she supposes that would work. So Crystal glances up at him, a little flustered, a little hopeful—

Only a while after, he's already hovering above her. Crystal can see the water on his skin, can smell the shampoo in his hair and the aftershave he's put on, and feels the incredible heat that radiates from his skin. When he leans down to kiss her, a small bead hits her on the cheek. She flinches when he presses his lips to that spot, and sets her hands on his chest. She is unsure of where to put her hands exactly, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her right arm, makes her wrap them around his neck. It's strange because they aren't kissing yet; she's impossibly close to him, and even though her shirt is starting to get clammy, she can't bring herself to care.

Gold's left hand is still holding the towel, and the distance he purposefully puts between the damp fabric and her shorts doesn't go missed. Crystal wants to close that distance, wants to feel him just as much as she wants to kiss him. When he feels that her cheek is dry enough, he grabs her face with his right hand and kisses her.

It's a surprisingly soft kiss by his standards, but she still feels the customary chill run up her back when his hand rests between the skin of her neck and her hair. She's been letting it down a lot, maybe because she needs a change or maybe because she knows he likes it. He's holding himself back. Crystal frowns, and kisses him back as harsh as she can. She isn't going to – she doesn't _deserve_ being treated like a baby.

She tugs him down, pulls his hair in a startling demonstration of don't-fuck-with-me, and feels him edge closer to her. The heat is multiplied, infinitely, when he finally pulls her close. He doesn't disappoint: Gold's hands disappear underneath her skirt, playing with the end of her cotton underwear, pressing her hard against the towel, and Crystal realises it's her _thigh_ that's keeping it up. The thought of it makes her want to stop flexing her leg and watch the towel slide down his legs—

Gold's fingers on the edge of her shirt snap her out of it, making her stifle a surprised sound when he pulls it up. She has a sense of déjà vu, and feels her cheeks flush when she remembers that – _Christ_ – she's not properly dressed for this. The attire is already on the floor when she starts to feel embarrassed, and she arches her back when his fingers fumble with the hook. Crystal sputters and pushes him away, ducking her face so that he doesn't see her flushed cheeks.

"W-Wait, wait, _Gold_—"

She doesn't want to lose her virginity in a _kitchen counter_. … The kitchen isn't even _hers._

He halts, and the sound of their heavy breathing, for seconds, is the only source of noise. His hands drop to the counter, effectively trapping her in a subtle way; Crystal feels the unhooked clasp, and blushes even harder, covering her half-clothed chest modestly. She doesn't want to look at his face; she's scared that maybe she'll find disappointment or annoyance, because she's being really immature for someone who so promptly declares herself to be responsible and not childish at all.

He kisses her forehead and rests his chin on the top of her head. Sometimes it scares her how much he's grown; and to think _she_ was taller than him before …

"Don't rush yourself."

She hurries to meet his eyes and ends up making him knock his head on the wooden cupboard.

"Sorry!"

"'M fine…"

"I just," she starts, "I like you." His cheeks explode in shades of crimson as he looks away, too embarrassed to hold eye contact. "I suppose it's obvious, but – but you make me want to touch you for stupid reasons, and then I lose all my nerve, and I'm not myself at all, I feel so confused, and it's your entire fault!"

"Sorry," he finishes, and smiles brightly at her. Where has his embarrassment gone to? He doesn't _seem_ sorry. "You don't have to force yourself to do anything," he says, but Crystal frowns. His penis tells another story, and she isn't naïve enough to pretend that he doesn't need a sense of relief that isn't brought by his own hands. "I can wait. Just having you is enough."

"Just have—?"

And in true Gold fashion, he snuggles his face into her neck and lets his hands linger a little longer beneath her skirt. She thinks it should bother her, but she_does_ feel sorry for him, and she isn't ready to take on actual sex. Not yet. That is certainly the only reason why she lets him keep his hands there (not because it makes her knees weak or her head spin or her skin twinge with delightful electricity).

* * *

That, of course, is a lie, and it's verified the very next day, when she locks herself inside the bathroom thinking about Gold in a towel. She hasn't got the nerve to actually let her hands roam in her admittedly-longer-than-usual shower, but she wonders—if his hands on her skin make her faint, then … what …

She gets a little flustered after that, and focuses on buying more shampoo instead of Naughty Thoughts.

The breakfast goes smoothly. They don't share any awkwardness, despite Crystal's cheeks flushing every now and then. It makes her feel very accepted and thankful for his easy-going personality. That and the feeling of normality being regained. The last few days were clumsy and awkward and very sad, but now she can talk with him easily. It makes her feel … loved? She doesn't really know. It's fine, even if she doesn't.

They exchange pleasantries and information about their respective statuses; he's _this!_ close to mastering the bangle's ability, while Crystal is sure she can do it in a week or so, as long as she keeps up the harsh training schedule. Gold tells her he's just woke up, anyway, so he really should shower, but before, he wants to hit the waves a while.

"Okay," Crystal replies, a little confused. He's not used to telling her where he's going, at least not through voice (the thought of hurriedly scribbled post-its makes her smile), so … ?

"Okay. I'll be back soon," Gold says, towel (_towel brings back Nasty Thoughts no no **no**)_ around his neck, and then he leans over and kisses her. Crystal blinks, resists the urge to sputter. "Bye," he adds, smiling, as an afterthought, and leaves. It takes her a little while to cool down after that.

She occupies herself with cleaning and then excessive training, until she goes inside for a glass of water and hears the shower running. He swims a lot these days. Crystal can't really understand the attraction to the sea, but then again, she rather enjoys hiking, while he doesn't. The sea, she is quick to notice, makes his skin a little drier, his shoulders a little wider, and she is a little surprised to perceive that she's been checking him out.

Well, _they **are**_ practically – almost – just about married.

She sets the glass down and makes to return to the backyard, where Mega is waiting patiently for her. She's going to skip lunch today, and compensate with an extra-large dinner or something, because she knows she isn't going to be able to share the training ground with him. Gold is far too distracting. She is far too distracting, too, and she's finally aware of how his eyes run over her when he thinks she isn't looking.

Even though he's seen her … well, _almost_ braless, does her body still fascinate him? If they – if they … well, will he grow bored because there is nothing more he can achieve from her? Gold is a lot of things, but he isn't a jackass when it comes to girls and respect and having healthy relationships. Even if he did feel up Blue the moment he set his eyes on her …

"What's for lunch," Gold asks, and sets his arm around her shoulders.

She nearly jumps.

"Ah?" she screeches, and then blushes from embarrassment, "You, you scared me."

"Sorry." He doesn't sound very apologetic. He hasn't sounded apologetic since they started living together. His hand radiates heat. "Lunch?"

"I was going to skip lunch," she mumbles. The physical contact is lacking, scarce; she thinks she might already be used to being molested by him. This is Really Not Okay, her brain screams at her, appalled. "And, uh, compensate at dinner, like I sometimes do. I'm running late in my training schedule."

Gold groans, his chest vibrating with the strength of his voice. She feels ticklish and a little dizzy.

"I hate cooking."

Crystal sighs and takes his arm away as she turns to the small refrigerator. "I'll fix you something, then."

"Thank you," Gold says, from behind, and presses a small kiss to her cheek. He leaves immediately, fetching silverware or plates or something completely unimportant to her logic, so he doesn't get to see her fidget uncomfortably, scratch the tingly place where his soap-scented skin rubbed on. Has he always been this physical, or is it just now, because she lets him? A small part of her wants to find out. Another, more wary, reminds her of his fingers in her bra, and Crystal focuses on making scrambled eggs and on _nothing else._

* * *

By the end of the afternoon, her every muscle is sore, and she gladly flops on the couch, eating a yogurt. The satisfaction of being a little closer to the saving of her seniors totally swats the dull ache of her legs aside. Besides, she thinks, Mega is more tired and sorer, and _he_ doesn't complain.

Crystal, for once, doesn't think of Gold as she extends into the velvety surface, flexing her legs and occasionally stretching. Her hair is still damp, pulled up in a single ponytail, which sort of reminds her of Yellow … she swallows the soft cream, relishing the taste of strawberries. They're nearly there. Emerald is working, too, and she knows Sapphire and Ruby have it in them. It's just about training and patience, now. And Crystal has patience in spades.

Gold walks past her, distractedly headed to the kitchen. He's shirtless. He's been shirtless more often; she wonders if he's doing it on purpose, or if he just doesn't care about being half-naked anymore. Sometimes she wants to walk around in her underwear, too, just because it's hot, or maybe just because she still has an ego and would like to gauge his reaction. Her modesty and her personality don't let her, though, so Crystal contents herself with her yellow skirt and a basic top. Something white, something fresh. The heat wave from a few days hasn't gone away yet, much to her chagrin.

"Scoot over," he says, hands full with a bottle of lemonade and a plate full of toasts. "I made you supper. You can't eat just that." She grudgingly complies, folding her legs so that he has enough space to sit. He sets the plate on the coffee table and grabs her left foot, placing it on his lap. "You can lie down properly, you know."

Crystal murmurs a tiny 'okay', and then feels a little self-conscious about her feet and about her skirt. Can he see her underwear from where he's sitting? The way he reads his comic book – which is to say, calmly – tells her she's safe so far, because she can _always_ tell when he's staring at her ass. She places the other foot on his lap, enjoying the silence. Crystal sort of wants to fall asleep, but she's deathly afraid that she starts moaning his name in a feverish daze like before, so she steels herself as she finishes her yogurt.

Eating sideways, however, is a science she hasn't yet mastered, and eventually the spoon shifts and gravity does its thing. She gets up, sputtering, and a little amazed that she's embarrassing herself but doesn't even care anymore. There is a cool trail of food down her chin and onto her cleavage, and it doesn't strike her as potentially harming or pornographic that she has yogurt all over her tits, and that Gold is gawking at her.

She would normally apologise, but he's already getting up (frowning and flushing and _desperate_) and getting as far away from her as he can—his bedroom. The only place off-limits for her, just like hers is to him.

For some reason, she _really_ thinks she's screwed up this time, and after she wipes the unfortunate euphemism for 'come' off of her, she shyly taps at his bedroom's door. It's the first time she does so ever since they're here, the first time that doesn't have to do with waking him up so he can train. God, she feels really strange, too. Crystal knows that Gold looked at her and didn't see yogurt, he saw a twisted picture of one of his fantasies regarding her (because if she has them, he _certainly_ has them too) and using her mouth to uh, relieve him.

For all the pain and shame she puts him through, she thinks it would maybe be a worthy reward. Or at least a worthy apology. That is, if she has the guts to do it.

"It's unlocked," he groans from inside. His voice makes something inside her bounce pleasantly as she opens the door. The blinds are half-closed, and the room is painted with a sense of lethargy and depression so huge she is astounded. Is this how he feels, just because he can't touch her? She feels increasingly guilty.

Gold is sitting by the bed, holding his head in his hands. She wants to say she's sorry. "That was really uh, strange, right," is what comes out instead. There is a pillow in his lap. She wants to slap herself. He doesn't really say anything apart from "yeah", and when Gold's golden mouth is shut, it's usually a sign that something is Very Wrong. "Can I do anything to help you?" Crystal whispers, taking a step closer.

He interrupts her before she can ask if he wants her to bring him the forgotten bottle of lemonade he left by the coffee table, or maybe he wants a toast, or maybe she can kiss him—"You can, but I don't want you to. Can't you understand?" He's grinding his teeth. "I want to do more, I want to have sex with you, but I don't want to be an ass, so I try my best not to pressure you. But I want to – I can't even count the mornings I wake up hot because of you, and I want to see you naked every time you do something minimally suggestive, but you are such a _huge_ cockblock! Have you got any idea of the things I want to _do_ to you?" He breathes in, pushes his hair back in mock despair. Crystal feels the heat spread across her skin, fast like lightning. "I have a mental list I would be more than pleased to tell you—namely I wanna push you against a wall and fuck you silly, or maybe I just want to drive my fingers up your skirt and watch you come apart because of _that_. Do you even know how much it hurts to have you so close to me? And yet _I'm_ the one who has to jack off in the shower, because you are completely unaffected! That is just _so fucking unfair_—"

"Language!" Crystal exclaims. Her face is as red as his. Maybe more. "I will wash your mouth with soap if it's the last thing I do, Gold!"

He falls back, grabs his pillow and shoves it against his face in a vain attempt to make her _stop talking_. Crystal stares at his crotch and averts her eyes as soon as she notices that he's _very_ much affected by the yogurt incident.

"Well, what do you want me to do? H-have you stopped to consider that maybe I think about you, too!"

He obviously hasn't. Gold sits up, mouth open, and places the pillow on his lap, blocking the view. Thankfully, she is no longer distracted by the fact that he has a hard-on just because he saw her dripping white goo out of her mouth, and manages to regain the breath lost on her inelegant scream.

"You just don't act like—really? **_You_**? _You_ do? But you're Crystal—"

"I—just—I just don't show it! Not everyone is shameless like you!"

They are back to their usual banter when he pulls her into his lap, hand tight around her wrist; Crystal wonders – in urgency – just where has the pillow gone to, but then he kisses her. It's a strange kind of kiss. Not unlike their others, but more desperate, like the time when he pushed her against the kitchen counter and left immediately after. His tongue is inside her mouth, and although the experience is strange, Crystal finds herself shyly responding to him, flinching when he sucks on her lip, feeling a unique type of warmth pool in her lips and between her legs.

She has the instinct to clamp her knees together, but finds that Gold's torso lies between them, an obstacle. The sensory overdrive is too much for her to recognise where and _how_ he's touching her. He has his right hand on her hip, his left on her neck, stopping her from pulling away; she can feel the soft fabric of his swimming trunks swishing alongside the skin of her thighs, and breathes in when his fingers curve towards her underwear.

"Then, do you want to help me?" he whispers in her ear, when she pulls apart to breathe. Crystal pushes her face into the space between his shoulder and his neck, and thinks. She wants this; she Really Wants This, and he wants it _more_. God damnit, why are her hands shaking, why is it so hard to keep her eyes open, and why does she want to touch him so much? "Crystal?"

"Yes!" she replies, breathless and flustered. "Yes, I just – yes?"

Yes? She isn't sure. Gold sighs dreamily and grabs her wrist, and pushes her hand into his groin. She practically sees white and does her best not to run away from the bed when he uses his left hand to pull her closer to him. If he wasn't checking out her underwear, then he sure is now. The curve on his shorts is stealing away all of her attention, however, and she can't really bring herself to care when he starts to take out her shirt.

"Arms up," Gold whispers, and kisses her before taking out her shirt completely.

It's not cold – in fact, it's very hot – but she still feels a pleasant chill run up her back. Her hand is pressed against his crotch again (crotch is _such_ an undignified word), and when she leans over to give him a better chance to strip her of her shirt, Gold's grip around her wrist tightens painfully. He hisses, and he groans, and Crystal feels a little lightheaded when he smashes their lips together, frantically.

"I need you to touch me—" another kiss, "—and I need it now."

It obviously surprises him when she nods and when she whispers her agreement, but he doesn't waste time on looking astounded. His hand leaves hers just so that he can take his shirt off, and when he's finally satisfied with his state of dressing, he halts. She stops staring at his chest. Crystal is still in his lap, but she doesn't know what it is that he wants her to do, so …?

"You should start by unbuttoning – "

"_Yes_," she replies stiffly, a little angry that _he's_ the one steering her, instead of the contrary. Her hands shake as she tries her best to unbuttoning the trunks, and Crystal bites her lip, trying to focus. This isn't any different than trying to catch a legendary, and it isn't any different than trying to save the world; in fact, this is _ridiculously easier_ to do. Or, it would be, if she stopped freaking out over Gold's penis.

Crystal almost wants to tell him … that maybe this isn't such a good idea after all, when Gold's breathy voice informs her that, _he can't believe she's actually doing this_. She looks up to meet his eyes, but fails to. His eyes are on her hands, as if he's focused on nothing but the … well, matter at _hand_, and he seems so happy, Crystal just can't back out. Not now. When she finally succeeds, she hurriedly glances towards a very interesting poster. Oh, god, she can't believe she's doing this either. Gold lazily kisses her neck, and ordinarily she'd be upset and considerably embarrassed about the trail of spit he leaves in her skin, but once it cools down, it leaves a very interesting sensation.

"You can look down," he says, and grinds his hips against hers, suggestively. She doesn't know where he finds the energy to do so—Crystal feels very tired and dizzy, even more so when he does That Thing With His Hips.

She's not sure she wants to, though. The build-up is crazy, and when he does That Thing With His Hips, she wants nothing more than to do it too. Crystal has never felt so confused and so aroused in her entire life. Discovering hormones is like a teenage Armageddon, especially when it's _her_.

Gold directs her hand towards his dick, and by the time she's telling him to stop, her hand meets the fabric of his boxers. While knowing that there is still another barrier between her and his erection, she can't help but to stifle a cry, because she can feel the heat and she can feel it practically pulsing in her hand. Fabric or not, Gold lets out a low groan, and it's the sexiest thing she's ever heard from him. Is she doing this right? She must be, even though she has yet to begin moving her hand, because he's twitching and pushing her closer, until her skirt (which has been thrown up, scandalously) is nothing but a flash of yellow around her waist.

It hits the prize, though, when he falls down onto the bed, his hands covering his face as he struggles with his breathing. She's practically _riding_ him; thinking about it makes her stiffen, and Gold moans from beneath her.

"_Guhh,_" he says, mumbling. The knuckles of his fingers are white with the strength with which he's closing them. "We should've done this _ages_ ago."

"But—" She's not even touching him yet. Does it feel this nice, for him? To feel her fingers pressing in the spot he wants them to? She's not experienced, but she's not stupid, and she knows that maybe he's expecting her to use her mouth, but she's _really_ not going to do that. At least, not so soon … Her head gyrates as she struggles with unexpected fantasies.

She steels herself and hooks her index finger in the elastic of his red boxers. His skin is sizzling, and so is her face, while she pulls it down. She wonders what's going through his head. Is she good enough? Does he like this? Is his pleasure enough for her to stop feeling incredibly dirty already?

Crystal blushes to the roots of her hair when Gold gets up, practically gasping, and, in between kisses, begs (she's never heard him beg so seriously before, really) for her to _please please **please**!_ hurry up, or he's going to die of blue balls. Crystal isn't sure what that means, but she nods and – closing her eyes, she pulls the fabric down. Slowly, so that she doesn't risk it snapping against him, but surely.

By the time she cracks one eye open, he's staring at her expectantly, and she returns to the blowjob thought. The previous "how can people put things like _those_ in their mouths" transforms into "maybe it wouldn't be so bad", but by then she's already running a curious finger across him, and Gold flops down again, defeated.

"How … how do I … ?" She wants to know, so that she finally show him she's sorry for apparently being such a tease (but then again, _she's_ not the one who walks around shirtless and in a _towel_). She wants to know, because there is a small (actually Really Big) part of her that wants to see him under her, writhing and calling out her name.

Crystal wonders when she became such a sadist.

"Do whatever you want—_uhh_—" he manages through gritted teeth, from below. His hands are on his face again; is he embarrassed? … But wasn't this what he _wanted_?

Gold sits up, panting, his face red and bed-hair poking out in strange places, and kisses her. Crystal halts, but he pulls apart and tells her not to stop. **Please**. She hurriedly moves again, but this time … Gold is hot, touching her in her ribs, in her stomach, kissing her, placing sloppy, desperate kisses against her collar bones, fingers skating to the hook of her bra, but never actually touching it. She wriggles her hips, uncomfortable with the attention, and he thrusts up without noticing. She bites down on her lip, head spinning with tension and mental pictures.

He's soft but _rigid_ in her hands, an antithesis; Crystal gauges his reactions and compares them with specific touches. Tightening makes him curve his hips towards her, while pumping has him grabbing her hips and squeezing, hard. She wants to ignore the moans and the sudden intakes of breath that fall out of his mouth, because they only make her even more flustered.

She almost doesn't notice him coming; Gold pulls her against him completely, presses an open-mouthed kiss against her lips and insistently licks at her lips until she kisses him back, his hands working a soft kind of magic in her hair and in her stomach. But there is the slightest shake against her ass when he thrusts up, eyes closed and teeth grinding, his fingers so tight around her hips Crystal briefly wonders if he's going to leave a bruise. She tries her best not to pay attention to the pleasure surging between her legs when he thrusts; she barely notices that she's trying to grind against him as well.

"_Fffuck_," he whispers, against her mouth, and bites her lower lip at the same time he slips his hands underneath her bra. Crystal is too astounded to pay attention to the delicious twinges between her hips and on her chest, because for probably – probably? He's too good an actor for her to notice – for probably the first time, he's letting himself go. Gold relishing control is strange, like a foreign concept, like she has never actually thought of him as submissive (but that would be a lie).

She is used to have him try to control her. Usually, he's good at it, with all the touching and the confessing he 'jacks off in the shower while thinking of her': he's _very_ good at guilt-tripping her. She bites down on her lip, feeling suddenly aware that there is a trail of white, sticky … Crystal flushes and looks away from her hands, only to notice that it's on her thighs, too. Gold is lying on his bed again, catching his breath. His dragging sighs are synchronised with hers. Her bra is askew, and she feels a little strange when she thinks about his hands on her breasts.

So, what now?

"That was fucking amazing, Crystal," he manages, from beneath her, and props himself up with his elbows. "Is this _really_ your first time?" he adds, then, the sliest of smiles breaking his face into a perverted grin.

She can't take his eyes on hers (not while she's half-naked, covered in come, hair a mess and with her skirt all bunched up), so she picks the most logical course of action, trying her best to ignore his approving glances over her breasts.

Crystal runs away.

* * *

The first fifteen minutes are easy. She's locked herself inside the bathroom, and has taken care of herself with a cold shower. That part is easy. The hard part is when she is faced with the door. Crystal isn't stupid. She knows he's patiently waiting outside, probably sitting against the corridor wall, or maybe even standing, so he can act immediately, once he sees her step out.

Crystal knows she should have never – _never_ –

She groans, sits on the closed toilet, and stares at her face in the mirror. Her cheeks are still flushed – from continuously recalling the previous situation –, her hair is damp and loose, and she's in her underwear. Her skirt is stained, so she folds it and places it on top of the lavatory, so she can wash it later.

The blue-haired girl is still amazed that she could run on legs so wobbly, but that doesn't change the fact that she is still trapped inside the bathroom. She gets up, tests the strength of her knees. The mirror mimics her. Crystal practices a neutral glance, but it fails to strike a sustainable impression.

"This is great," she says to her reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn't comment on the irony, so she picks up a towel and puts it over her shoulders.

She finds out that once her hand is already in the knob, it's actually rather easy to turn it. The door doesn't open, and she feels herself colour when, after a small moment of panic, she remembers that _she's _the one who locked it. Crystal peeks outside, and feels really stupid when Gold turns his eyes from his comic book to her. He's the picture of relaxation, sitting on the floor and sipping from a glass of lemonade. He's taken the time to dress himself, which she appreciates.

"Are you ready to come out now, or do you need more time?" he asks, slightly mocking, slightly worried. In that bittersweet tone of voice only he has.

"No," she replies abashedly, ducking her head.

"Does this mean there are no more handjo—"

Crystal wordlessly kicks him in the shin, blushing furiously at his terms.

"Just because you can say it without feeling bothered doesn't mean _I_ want to hear it."

"Touché." Gold gets up, stares at her legs appreciatively, and grabs the glass with his left hand. He closes the comic book with his right. "Anyway, I thought maybe it would do us both good to have a night out." When she begins to say that they haven't learnt the game-breaking attack, he is already walking towards the kitchen. "I've mastered blast burn already, so."

"You—you have not!"

He sets the things on the table. "But I _have_." He looks way too satisfied. "Just today. Before we …" and he raises his eyebrows (she flushes red), "you know. I was going to tell you, but then you failed to eat a yogurt correctly – seriously who _does_ that, not that I'm _complaining_ – and … you know the rest. Don't you think today deserves a celebration?" Crystal stares at him. She's not sure if he's talking about mastering blast burn, or about finally getting to third base with her. Knowing him, though, makes the answer obvious.

"I don't know." She's a little reluctant, but like all things Gold, she caves. He can't fool her with his cheerfulness—he's still a boy who's very much in love with her (?), and she keeps running away from his advances. Crystal doesn't know when his reserve of self-confidence will drain, and even so, he deserves an apology. She certainly wouldn't like being left hanging after – after … well. It's amazing, in her opinion, how he doesn't give up on her after all she's put him through.

"On me," he adds merrily, and sits on the kitchen table. It creaks under his weight.

"Fine. But only when _I_ master my attack," she says, and sighs, defeated. There is another small screech from the table, and when she turns to look, he kisses her. It's slow, chaste, and especially sweet; there are no hands creeping underneath her towel, and when Gold pulls away, he smiles.

* * *

She knows that he finds her skirt in the basket when he does the laundry, but for once she doesn't think about implications concerning sex. If the fleeting thought of him with red cheeks and widened eyes runs through her mind, it's merely a coincidence, and nothing more. Crystal is much too busy picking out a nice summery dress to have mental pictures about Gold getting shocked and turned on because of some silly stains on her skirt.

Crystal ends up picking a white, light dress. It's too hot for shorts and … she wants to look nice, because of him. It's kind of embarrassing how fast they are moving. So what if it's been five years since they started this whole dance (because that's what it is—they are dancing, avoiding a particular subject). A month ago, they were barely kissing, and now she's helping him masturbate and going out on dinners with him. Ridiculous, she thinks, and sets the dress inside her wardrobe again.

Gold spends his days swimming or training, even though he's got nothing to train for now. Burn blast is impressive—it's fire and heat and somehow the attack really defines his whole being. It's deadly and attracts the eyes of anyone, too … Frenzy plant has got nothing on blast burn, but she doesn't mind. As long as she can reach that step, then everything will turn out alright, and then they'll just have to wait for Emerald to do his thing.

She folds her hands in her lap as she stares outside. It's too hot to go out and train, and Crystal doesn't want to risk heat exhaustion. That would just be wasting time they … sort of need. She's read all her books twice already, but she doesn't think the village's library has any about genetics and advanced pokémon anatomy.

She has nothing to do; she realises, and lies down on her bed. Gold is outside, by the makeshift beach, down by the rocks; it would do her no harm to visit, or even maybe take a dive into the sea. It's been a long time since she last went swimming, and … she's close to mastering frenzy plant, anyway. _Besides_, she tells herself (so that she doesn't feel guilty that she's playing hooky), _we depend on Ruby and Sapphire and Emerald, and they are still in the middle of their journeys, so _… She has a lot of time left.

Her resolve strengthened, Crystal sits up and moves to her dresser, fishing out her bathing suit. She eyes it suspiciously. Will he find it too old-fashioned? It's a simple one-piece, and it's probably not too pretty, but … Okay, she doesn't want to look bad. She knows—she's aware that she has a nice body, but maybe he won't find her attractive if she wears something like that … She sighs. Gold messes with her head even when he isn't near her. It's kind of really horrible: she feels inadequate, she feels shy, she feels all kinds of flustered, and he isn't even in the house. Biting her lip, she rummages through her wardrobe again. She knows she has another swimsuit around, just for an emergency, and—

Crystal will never have the guts to wear this. It's a small, white two-piece. She can't—but then again, it's not like there are other people around, except for Gold. And Gold has … seen more than he should have, anyway. _Okay_. _I can do this._ She puts it on, tentatively checking herself out in the mirror; it suits her well, and it doesn't show as much skin as she thought it would. _Perhaps it's not so bad … it's not like he hasn't seen anything before_, she tacks on lamely, staring at her covered chest.

With a towel in one hand and her bag on her back, she leaves the house.

* * *

"What's the occasion, super-serious girl?", is what he asks her when he witnesses her arriving to the beach. It's in an amused tone, like he's been expecting her to arrive, but he is still obviously surprised. Crystal doesn't miss his eyes appreciating her legs (and her ass, when she leans over to put her stuff on the sand).

"I felt like taking a break from this heat." It's a lie. While she has taken breaks because of the heat, she has never joined him in the beach. In fact, it's the first time she does so, and it's been almost a month since they've been here. "And since you always seem to have so much fun when you come here, I thought I would see what it's all about."

He smiles at her: "'Put sunscreen?"

"Of _course_ I put sunscreen—"

"I meant on me." She flushes red. "There are places I can't reach." Then, he pauses, and stares at her. "Did _you_ manage to reach all the way to your back, Crystal?"

"I—I did! I'm very flexible!" Crystal exclaims, and crosses her arms. He checks out her cleavage, and she stops crossing her arms immediately. "Do you or do you not need me to put sunscreen on you?" she adds, bitterly. It's reached a point where she actually stops to consider his ridiculous questions. She's so in love, it's not even funny.

Gold wordlessly hands her his sunscreen, and turns away from her, spinning on his towel. His skin is still damp, Crystal notices, when she kneels next to him. She pops the recipient open and … Hhm. Okay. She doesn't know how she's going to do this. Putting sun cream on him involves touching him; she's still appalled she didn't think of that earlier. And she doesn't want to touch him. Well, doesn't want to touch him isn't entirely accurate. She's simply very embarrassed because he's topless, and he was topless when she _touched_ (like, _really_ touched him) him and she's just—getting very confused and very flustered again.

"Do you need directions or something?"

"No!" she snaps, flushing harder. The sunblock in her hand is practically grinning at her, daring her to touch him. So Crystal does.

Gold shivers. "Cold."

"You're just too hot," she chides, and her thumb runs across his shoulder. He turns his head, grinning, ready to spit out a come-on, but she silences him with a look. Her palm slides down his back, and he arches his back just slightly. The bones of his shoulders poke out, the tanned skin stretching, and she feels a little breathless. Gold is slim muscle and a perfect fit when it comes to athletic bodies, and she can't believe she's thinking about it, but he has a very attractive body. She breathes in and he does too. His frame heightens and she falters.

The smell of sea and sunblock permeates the air around them, and she lets her hand slide across his right arm. It's become less of "putting on sun cream" and more of "a massage", but he hasn't complained, and she isn't too embarrassed to stop. She sets the sunscreen down on his towel, pretends her chest doesn't brush his arm when she does so, and starts using both hands.

It's so quiet she thinks she can hear her heart beat over the sound of crashing waves. Her nails rake across his skin and before she can apologise, he's already taken a sharp breath—Crystal freezes, her hands planted against his scapulae. Gold's hanging his head, looking away from her, and she proceeds. For some reason, the whole vibe she's getting is much more than a simple massage, and she distractedly shifts her thighs.

"That's enough," Gold says from before her. He sets his hands on the sand and turns towards her. "Let me."

"I've told you …" Her voice cracks half-way when he gets closer, reaching for the sunblock on her left. He's so close, she can count the freckles on his nose. He presses a soft kiss on her cheek before popping the lid open, and she can't bring herself to complain.

"Turn around." On his knees, he is much taller than her sitting down. Crystal obliges, kneeling so that she can turn around graciously, but his hands effortlessly bring her against him. She suppresses the urge to ask him: 'How in god's name are you going to put sunblock on me if I'm so close?' She knows he's planning something, but this time she doesn't want to object.

When he touches her, she can't help but to arch her back, suppressing a yelp. "Cold!"

"You're just too hot," he echoes, palms drifting across her sides. She can't help the shiver that runs up her spine when his thumbs skim around her ribs, edging dangerously to the edge of her top. It makes her suck in a discreet breath, thinking of the last time his fingers were there. It makes her wonder where he's going to touch next. They stroll from her ribs to her scapulae, playing with the strings of her bikini, giving her an idea of what he maybe wants to do at the moment, and then they slide down her arched back, large hands circulating her hips, dragging her underwear below, just the smallest of inches, enough for it to be tangible but not perceived by sight. She flexes her legs, then, surprised, and he leans forward, reaching for the front of her neck. Crystal almost inhales expectantly, almost eager to give him more leverage, but then her Responsible Side shakes its head in concern, and she curves onto herself once more, shoulders drooping. He sighs onto her ear (disappointed?) and that alone undoes her, silences her Responsible Side for good, bringing out her Frustrated one instead.

Crystal lets her head fall on his shoulder, thin neck curving backwards, along with her chest, and he swallows. Crystal thinks she hears the slippery surface of his shorts stirring, but ignores it soon after. His hands halt for the shortest of milliseconds before they skim the end of her superior bikini part, the ends of his fingers tracing half-circles around the skin. They're asking her a question, she knows, but she only manages an answer when his husky voice sounds in her ear, an anxious whisper of "can I?" Of course he can – she nods quickly, before she loses her nerve, and bites on her lip, hard, when he finally slips his fingers beneath the flexible fabric. Her head feels about to explode, one hundred degrees of mortified fire rushing across her cheeks. Gold presses his mouth on her neck, dragging his teeth, twirling his fingers around. Crystal doesn't get it: just because it's him the one experimenting with her breasts, pinching and pressing, having her tensing her neck and having her hands twisting in his swimming trunks—just because it's him, she is at a loss for Proper Conduct. Serious Gal Crystal would never let this kind of perverted behaviour go unpunished, but just once … Just once –

She breaks her thought chain when he licks from between her shoulders to the end of her neck, pressing her breasts together, and Crystal presses her thighs together as well, the muscles refusing to listen to her brain as it tells them to sit still. Gold moves his oral attentions to the spot behind her ear as his right hand drops to pull at one of the knots keeping her panties in place. A suggestion of somewhere else he can touch. And who is she, in her present state of mind, to say no? But she doesn't say 'yes' either, instead pressing her lips firmly together. The position is too weird, too pornographic; he's already opened his legs for better access, his knees holding her shoulders as his feet bury in the sand a little ways above her knees. And even though her legs are firmly closed, shifting together uncomfortably as the heat pools in the apex of her thighs, she doesn't want him to finger her (Proper Crystal gasps at the term but Actual Crystal just sighs when he squeezes) with her legs open, in a public (if deserted) beach no less. The rough fabric of the towel shifts against the underside of her panties and she gasps. He leans back, lets her fall into his right arm as he presses a kiss into her half-open mouth, his left hand drawing something in her navel. She can feel herself twitch as he does, and—

"I could make up to you now," he whispers, between languid, erotic kisses, and Crystal knows Gold knows it has to be suggested now or once they reach home the mood will be locked, and the key thrown into the sea. So she nods, easing the self-created pressure between her thighs, and even then, while she is ready, her knees knock together when his left hand slides beneath her swimming panties. Her head falls back onto his bent arm, his mouth insisting on the frail skin of her neck, and she really hopes he isn't making hickeys all over there because she will _kill _him if he is –

She forgets all about that, though, sobbing sweetly once his smart, deft, wonderful fingers do something, his name dripping out of her incapable mouth. It's probably then she feels the insistent press of his dick against her back and when she opens her eyes, she finds him staring into hers. His golden eyes are dark and half-lidded as his fingers turn into her, curling and having her repeating the same gesture with her nervous hips. It's so intense and shameful, knowing that he is analysing her as he – he – god, his hand is making her convulse with sharp hiccups of his name, and for a while, when his mouth opens into a bright smile, and his fingers halt, like they've found something—in that moment, her spine curves, her lips opening into a quiet scream, his fingers around hers as she squeezes, her head boiling as she throws it backwards – and she moans, a drawn-out whine of his name, her voice breaking and her thighs closing.

Her last, exhausted thought is about how lavish his eyes look when she sees herself writhing in them.

* * *

She is half-angry at him for the rest of the afternoon, because she is embarrassed and effervescent. She's also (really) pissed at herself for letting him influence her so easily, for complying to his taboo urges so sweetly. Crystal lets her forehead lean against the moist, cool wall of the bathroom, staring at the blue tile without really seeing it. The water is cool but it still feels warm against her sun-kissed skin, and she turns to stare at the shower head instead, cooling her cheek in the cold wall.

Shampoo rinsed and skin clear of sand and sticky feelings between her legs, she steps out of the bathtub and touches around for her towel, eyes closed from the southward running water drops. Her fingers feel the wooden table, a corner of the basin, the metal pole of the curtain, and she opens her eyes, petrified at the thought that perhaps she's forgotten to bring her towel with her. A quick glance around the steamy bathroom confirms her fears, and she twists the plastic between her fingers, stopping only when she recalls how she did the exact same nervous, frustrated gesture when he was with his hand inside her bikini. _Okay,_she thinks, in a panic, _today is Thursday, which means_—she knows exactly what it means, she realises, cringing wetly, one foot out the bathtub. Clothes-washing day. _Gold must've washed the towels already_, she concludes, and even though she refuses to accept it that simply, when she opens the cabinet in the corner of the room, she finds nothing but a hands-towel. She sits on the edge of the bathtub, drying her face and hair miserably. Like having an orgasm in his arms wasn't enough, now she has to choose between the embarrassing option of asking him for a towel, or the mortifying option of trying to sneak to her room without running into him on the way. She cups her cheeks, closing her eyes in frustration, her stomach already looping around itself with masochistic anticipation. What would happen then? She almost wishes for a naked confrontation, knees closing and shifting as she pictures his blushing face, his darker eyes, his deeper voice stirring something inside of her …

Crystal groans into her towel, and then gets up, unlocks the door and calls his name tentatively. The house is quiet, and she extends her head around the door carefully, analysing the corridor. To get to her room, she needs to pass through the kitchen and the living room, but if she's home alone then it should be fine. Her masochistic, sick side of her assures her that it will be fine, and if it isn't, so what? Surely her embarrassment will soon be forgotten, overruled by something a lot more distracting. The serious side of her, for once, doesn't manifest, and she sighs when she understands just how perverted she's become. God. This is _his_fault.

With a careful step towards the wall, she peeks into the living room, taking in the back of the couch, the glass door to outside, the beginning of the kitchen.

"Gold? Hello?"

Nothing. Crystal tip-toes from the corner to the middle of the living room, grabbing at the hands' towel around her mid-section like it's her lifeline. Her damp hair tickles her chest, reminds her of wandering hands, and she feels her belly tighten. Her steps are quiet as she crosses towards the kitchen.

"Gold?" she tries, a little louder, curving her torso to the right so as to see the inside of the kitchen, pressing herself tighter against the wall.

"What?" he answers, sleepy voice coming from behind her, and Crystal freezes, an icy shiver making her arms stiffen where they stand, settled against the wall for balance. Her neck very slowly turns, her widened, deer-in-the-headlights eyes finding him sprawled across the couch, still topless, still wearing his trunks, one leg inelegantly slouching against the side of the couch. He's getting up, rubbing at his eyes distractedly, and Crystal knows that if she wants to avoid a horrible scene, she needs to get the heck out of the living room and needs to get inside the kitchen, where she is safe from his eyes, but her body is stuck in horror, and – it's too late now; he is already staring at her, the sleep on eyes completely gone, his hands fisted, his mouth half-open. Her mind goes numb as she presses herself against the wall, even more, like she wants to vanish into the wallpaper (because she does, oh she does).

There is a tense silence as his eyes don't leave hers; he is obviously straining not to let his gaze wander, his brow furrowed in concentration. Her feet still refuse to move, stuck against the wood. Crystal feels the half-familiar heat invade her as his eyes very, very slowly drop from her eyes to her mouth. Sliding, he finds her shoulder next, catches a ride on a clear drop as it melts downward, into the curve of her backside, half-covered by the small towel. It halts there, but then walks around it and into the muscles of her legs, and Crystal doesn't know why she can't stop staring at his face. Gold's tongue pulls his lower lip into his mouth and Crystal knows it's unconscious of him, but she finds herself biting on her lip as well.

The air between them is so sharp it can shatter if they breathe.

Gold rises on steady feet, taking slow but sure steps towards her, and Crystal sucks in an unsteady breath. Suddenly, his hands are on the knot of her towel, covering her hand. The other one scratches at the wall without her even perceiving it. Smoothly, he pulls her grip away and undoes the knot, letting it fall at her feet. This time, his eyes don't stray from hers, and Crystal turns on the ball of her feet without breaking eye contact, her right hand on his, the other at her chest. And that is when he kisses her, pulling her against him, the contact of their sliding chests electrifying her, one free arm looping around his neck, and then the other, when he lets it go. Contrary to her, his area of choice is far less chaste; she sighs into his kiss when his hands settle on the curve of her gluteus, his leg between hers, pushing her against the wall.

She sees stars when she feels his knee insisting against the top of her legs, making them buckle, warning her to hold onto his neck as a safety precaution. He groans into her mouth when her stomach rolls out of her control, pressing against the erection inside his swimming shorts. Every time she breathes, taking in shallow gasps of air, he thrusts against her; it's a lot like drowning—her head swims against the current when he does that. His right hand leaves the swell of her ass and turns her around, firmly but slowly pressing her against the wall. _Has it always been this cold_, she asks to no one in particular (god knows her head is stripped of clear thoughts at the moment), feeling her insides clench when her breasts push against the cold surface. Gold's hands drum a set of touches from her hip bones to the inside of her legs, at the same time he presses against her ass. Her eyes almost roll in their sockets, and she gasps in the momentum, her cheek pressing against the wall when he thrusts. She can feel him on both sides; the warmth of his arms around her stomach and his fingers curling inside her, and the hard touch of his erection against her butt, swaying harshly against her when he thrusts. It's too intense, and she is glad that she can't see his eyes from where she stands, until he pulls her chin to the side so he can kiss her. Crystal moans loudly, then, feeling the familiar construction of her orgasm already building, noticing how she presses her pelvis further against him, into his hands, without even thinking about it. He pulls away to groan, to hiss her name into her ear, biting into her shoulder when she comes, the soft, firm flesh of her thighs closing around him as well.

They fall to the floor at the same time. Her hands above her head, grabbing dazedly at the wall, like she's trying to keep her balance, his pulling her legs farther apart, pulling her up to her knees, and Crystal notices that she's the only one who's burst. Still lightheaded from their activities, she lets him proceed, leading her hands to the floor so as to ease the pressure of her knees against the bare wood. The numbness gone, she feels every inch of him now, the sensations heightened by her sensible flesh, her post-orgasm bliss kicking in and multiplying the spikes of pleasure resulting from his movements. He is in control of himself, his fingers helping her once more, his tongue laving the middle of her back, accompanied by the erratic slash of his teeth. Gold is a very giving lover, she notes, half-distractedly, straining to accommodate his hip motions.

He comes with a brusque huff of her name, dragging her with him immediately after.

She can feel him pulling at his shorts desperately, trying to get them out of the way, and Crystal decides to align herself with him, feeling his hand pull her closer, the expectation of an actual sexual relationship instead of stolen moments of pleasures so great she feels her head spin.

His voice sounds in her ear, asking her something, like the answer isn't obvious enough—she's naked and willing and if he doesn't close the distance between them right now, _she_ will. Crystal is two seconds away from telling him this when the cheerful – if a little inebriated – voice of Kimberly sounds from the other side of the front door.

"Hey, serious girl and nickname moron! I've come to check up on your training!"

* * *

It takes her two minutes to get dressed and to get rid of the stickiness between her legs, while Gold runs to the bathroom. After opening the door, she excuses herself, just a moment, and leaves him a towel, hanging from the knob, and a change of clothes. She feels her cheeks flush when the sound of running water seeps in from beneath the bathroom door, because it's obvious he's not really taking _just _a shower.

"So," Kimberly asks, taking the glass of scotch Crystal offers her, "how have you two been doing? I hope you haven't been arguing much, I know how annoying that boy can be."

Crystal maintains a worthy poker face as she replies. "We've been fine. Gold has already mastered the bangle's power," she says, sipping her iced tea slowly.

Kimberly frowns at her. "And what about you?"

"I have also mastered my attack," Crystal says pleasantly. "Just yesterday. I haven't told Gold yet, though. We've been … Busy." She averts her eyes from the old woman's, pretending to find the wallpaper the most interesting thing in the world. In fact, until a little while ago, it was. She breathes in slowly, tries to clear her head.

"I see," Kimberly replies, downing the glass in one go. Crystal struggles not to feel impressed. "Well, I'll give you another week. Emerald is not done with his challenge yet. I believe he'll start Tuesday. You should be in Hoenn by Sunday, of course, so …"

"Yes. We plan on leaving Friday, just to make sure we are not delayed. I've run things over with the S. S. Anne captain – twice – and with Captain Briney as well. He was a little reticent at first—"

"I know. Who do you think convinced the old fart?" the other woman asks with a raucous laugh, and the blue-haired girl laughs politely with her. "I need to talk with that moron boy before I leave, of course—"

"I'm here, you old hag," Gold answers, stepping out of the corridor leading to the bathroom, still drying his hair. Crystal sighs in relief once she notices he is not topless. "I've already mastered the bangle, _of course_—"

"Don't get so full of yourself, kid, because so has Crystal," she replies with a sneer, and points out Crystal's free wrist. Gold's eyes pause there and then glare at her, pinning her uncomfortably into the couch. She wilts a little, stares into her teacup fervently while he sits next to her, a full arm's distance between them. It feels like a mile, though. "Anyway," she continues, oblivious to the tension between them, "I was just telling Crys here that you should leave around Friday, so you can get there on time for the grand finale."

"I heard," he says levelly.

The rest of the conversation flies by uneventfully, and then Kimberly is gone, slamming the door behind her—and then it's just her and him and Crystal can't look at him. Not after that. Not after almost being caught _dry-humping_. She stares into her empty teacup again, counting the grass crumbles inside the yellow circle.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd mastered your attack?" he asks, in a voice so tiny she almost needs to lean in to hear.

"I … didn't have the chance to."

"When did you?"

"Yesterday night, when you were out playing pool."

"You could've told me at breakfast."

"I was nervous, okay?" She buries her hands into the fringes of her skirt, staring intensely at her feet. "You keep making me nervous."

"What?" he asks, incredulously, "I make you _nervous_? What's that mean?"

"It's supposed to mean I don't know when you're in the mood to just hold hands or – or push me into a wall and just – !" She groans into her hands, frustrated, closing her eyes. "Why do you think I am so used to this? Because I'm not! I don't do this – I am repressed and this is too liberating—"

"So, what, you don't want it?" Gold sounds confused, as he turns to her.

"I'm not saying I don't want it, I just don't know how to deal with it!"

"Why do you need to _need_ to deal with it!"

"Because I just do!" she shrieks, face red. "We just – against a wall, and I was about to – I, I mean – it's too much at once! We aren't even dating – things are not official! I _like_ official, okay? It makes me safe. It _is_ safe!"

"I don't see you asking me to slow down—"

"Because I want to please you, because I love you enough to throw my inhibitions aside! I get worried that you'll get bored, and it's not like I don't get into it once we're halfway … you know - it's the beginning and the end that scare me, because after I'm done having an orgasm it dawns on me and—"

What she says lingers in the air; she covers her mouth a second too late, and when she turns to look at him, she finds him averting his eyes to the wall, his cheeks red and his mouth a thin, embarrassed line. She blinks. What?

"I … I love you too," he manages, burying his face into his hands, an exact imitation of her recent behaviour, and Crystal can't help but to smile widely at that, her teeth bared at her feet. "Can't you tell? Hell, I thought you were the smart one …"

"Of course I can _tell_," she replies, affronted despite all, "but it's nice to hear it from you."

"It's not like you said it, either," he grumbles, his face still hidden from sight. Crystal smiles again. "And what do you mean, make things official? It's not like no one knows we're totally getting laid."

"Nobody's gotten laid so far," she says icily.

Gold smirks at her, finally breaking free of the confines of his fingers: "Look me in the eye and tell me we weren't gonna get it on if Kimberly hadn't showed up—"

"We were _not,_" Crystal lies, feeling the warmth flood in her skin.

_"Right, whatever._ You still owe me a dinner."

He's smiling widely again, his I've-got-a-plan-smile. She can't reply to that, the mental pictures of him, a wall and a puddle at their feet still too fresh on her mind for her to keep a straight, unabashed face.

* * *

By sunset, he stops her from making their dinner.

"We're going out," Gold tells her firmly, arms crossed. When Crystal tries to walk around him, he steps in front of her nimbly, stopping her on her tracks. "Crys," he adds, warm hands on her shoulder rendering her incapable of clear thoughts, his sunset-lit eyes boring into her own. She stares out the window of the kitchen, curses the sun for its romantic light. "I'm serious." He leans down, their noses almost touching; she holds her ground even though her fingers pulse. "Please?" he finally asks, because he knows – he knows she is too much of a nice person not to cave when he looks all golden and pink like that, when his lips are on hers.

Crystal keeps her mouth firmly closed, and he sighs against her lips, rolling his eyes, irritated.

"Don't make me—"

Her eyes snap open, embarrassed, and he falters.

"Don't make me _what?_" she asks, embracing the part of herself that know she can have him under her heel if she so wishes. He raises one naughty eyebrow, smiling lecherously at her, his hands headed for her waist. Crystal firmly slaps them away, still frowning.

"What the hell!"

"Language. Don't treat me like one of those bimbos you like so much," she replies grumpily. "I'm not going to bend over for you just because you are – just because I – " she huffs, pinches the bridge of her reddening nose when she realises she's buried herself.

"Stop digging your grave," he replies, smugly.

"_You_ stop digging my grave," Crystal says, allowing him to set his arms around her neck. She still feels her stomach skip when he kisses her, her skin heating and her brain incapable to perform normal functions (such as breathing regularly).

"I'll do anything you want," he breathes, into her ear, and she pulls herself from him, murmuring something about getting dressed before escaping to her room, half-paranoid that he can hear her heart pumping one hundred beats per second.

Opening her closet door, she catches her reflection in the mirror, and she sighs. They've never been this familiar with each other before, and it's never been easy to discuss sex with him. Perhaps the initial fear has passed? With three orgasms piling against her line of defence (two of those in less than ten minutes, which is probably very impressive for a guy who's a virgin), Crystal doesn't know what to think anymore.

And she knows they've been avoiding talking about the battle that approaches with wide steps, because they're both afraid. And she knows that the chances of them winning are no bigger than fifty percent; and she knows she wants to have sex with him. When did the Great Unknown become Something She Wants? She doubts he will have another chance at getting inside her pants, at least in the close future … and it's not like it's news that they are adolescents with a large collection of frustrations. Crystal admits that she is used to repressing and ignoring the occasional urges to slam him to the floor and having her way with him right there; because she is Crystal, and she's the role model of little kids and Emerald, too. It's unfair for her, of course it is, and she's not used to living alone with the object of her affections, which probably explains a lot in terms of her erratic, hormone-driven endeavours. To be alone – just she and he and a lot of Issues between them … It's hard.

She pulls out the white dress, and looks at it fondly, delicately stripping the metal hanger out of its clothes.

Crystal feels … ready. Maybe – maybe she's been for a while, or she wouldn't have allowed him to fool around in the beach, or she would've just ran away from him instead of moaning his name as his fingers drew half-circles inside her –

_Snap out of it_, she chides herself, stepping out of her skirt and into the summer dress. She doesn't need to do his homework for him; it's bad enough that she lets him do it at all.

* * *

Two Island is quiet as they walk down the street hand-in-hand. Crystal feels light, like she's walking on cotton candy. To be just like a normal couple is the best thing he can give her, aside from his love. They browse shops to make some time until eight, and he takes her to a small restaurant by the pier. The meal is nice and he pays, despite her complaints that she is more than capable of splitting the bill.

"I want to," he says, flushing, and that is the only reason as to why she lets him off the hook; there is something about seeing him embarrassed that throws her off her rails.

There are only three awkward pauses, one of which following the accidental cleavage bonus he gets after she bends over to grab at a fallen spoon. Crystal feels the tension climb slightly after that, maybe because he not-so subtly covers his lap with the table cloth when it happens. _It must be really frustrating_, she thinks, _not to be able to hide when you are thinking of sex_. Not that she makes it a rule to think about him, or anything –

"Is there something on my face?" he asks, when he catches her staring.

"Oh! No," Crystal manages, feeling her cheeks heat.

She excuses herself to the bathroom after that, and takes a long hard look at herself. Is it normal to feel like this? Not too long ago, she was baffled at his need to constantly kiss her – notably whenever she piled the washed dishes on the cabinet, hormonal urges clearly distracted by the sight of her ass – and now she gets distracted by her own head. He's ruined her. He's _ruined_ her – that's the only explanation as to why she's suddenly such a pervert, taking in pleasure from watching him _need_ her. Crystal huffs, grabbing at the sink with two hands, focusing on the faucets.

Why now of all times? Does she feel pressed because of Kimberly's visit, or does she feel like she's let him down for avoiding telling him about mastering her attack? Well, Serious Crystal replies, finally out of hiding after all Present Crystal has gone through, it's not like he noticed the bracelet fell. The answer as to why is obvious—they were far too immersed into each other to notice, just like she didn't notice his bracelet falling off. And time is sadly running out. That's probably why she wants to do it now; because despite all the training, all the sweat and tears, despite that, there is still a chance that it can go wrong and maybe she doesn't want to regret never really …

She frowns. She's such a hypocrite! Blaming him for pressuring her when she's the one who Wants now. Crystal knows she Wants, and she _knows_ what she Wants, but she's not sure of how to get it. Her personality will not let her take the lead – at least not while they are so new to each other. Is that why she is suddenly so frustrated? Because she can't bring herself to admit she is too weak to take the lead in the (previously known as) Great Unknown, (presently known as) Something She Wants?

Walking out of the bathroom, Crystal wishes, for the first time in her life, she weren't so collected. It would be so much easier if she let herself go for once. Case in point—a blue towel on the floor and Gold writhing against her.

"You okay? You're looking kind of red," he asks, once she sits down to finish the ice cream he's so generously bought her.

"Peachy," she says quickly, averting her eyes to the bowl.

* * *

The back room of Mark's bar is empty as they walk inside; he's leading her by the hand, flipping the light switch on as familiarly as if this room is a part of his house.

"Won't Mark be startled?" Crystal asks in a whisper, trailing after him. The dim, yellow light on the ceiling flickers alive, spilling a warm feeling inside. Despite the summer night, it is welcome, exorcising the darkness out of the room. For a back room, it is very clean, and well-kept. The floor is carpeted, a dark shade of red, she notices with a pleased smile, and there is a very homely ambient around. She thinks she understands why he likes it so much, here.

"He's out," Gold says offhandedly. "Went to visit his girlfriend. He's not back until tomorrow afternoon." Crystal freezes, he laughs warmly. "Relax, super-serious girl, I asked him for the key myself," he adds, and takes out the plastic triangle in the middle of the green felt, placing it on the small table on the corner of the room. "He was very understanding."

"What did you tell him we were going to do?" she asks meekly, and her heart leaps in her throat when Gold's hands plant against the pool table. Crystal tells herself she is not staring at his fingers, tells herself she is not playing the sight of his dark eyes beneath the summer sky over and over in her head.

"Play pool," he says, a little slowly. Crystal steps towards him, killing the distance between them softly, her hand slinking into his. "I told him we were going to play pool," he repeats, harrumphing softly, his eyes very focused on the empty surface, and it's then she realises he's seeing something she isn't. It's not hard to understand, though—

He turns to her, sitting on the edge of the table.

"It's sturdier than it looks," he says, very quietly, eyes dark. Crystal feels it, too, so she lets herself be pulled by his hand until the space between them is no more. "It's bolted to the floor."

Crystal feels her face flush; she's not sure if it's because his breath is on her ear or because his proposition isn't going unnoticed.

He settles his hands around her waist, slow like honey, and Crystal finally feels the typical nervousness that comes with his touch. The lethargy of it is unnatural, though; it gives her far more time to think about the present time. Like the slow path his mouth travels, from her ear to her mouth. It's a paused kiss, but the speed (or lack of thereof) doesn't take away from the intensity. If anything, it just adds to it, gives her the chance to really experience the hot spark when he coaxes her into using her tongue, the shiver that runs up her neck when he bites on her lip, the shallow breath she takes when his hands search for the straps of her dress, dragging across the skin of her back before he decides to pull them down.

She inhales briefly when he pulls away from her mouth, only to pepper kisses from her jaw to the swell of her breasts. Crystal finds herself pivoting before he pushes her on top of the pool table, sitting her properly and loosening the collar of his white shirt, even though the first and second buttons are already undone. With steady hands, he pulls the soft fabric up her legs, and stops once he properly feels her underwear. Red-faced, he asks her—

"Are these the string panties I bought you for your birthday?"

"Yes," she whispers, slightly embarrassed, and Gold kisses her like she likes him to, quick and passionate and leaving her lightheaded.

"I thought you said you'd thrown them away."

"I lied. It's … It's the first time I'm wearing them."

He groans into her ear, one arm around her back, dipping her into the green surface, the other already occupied with undoing the right-side knots. She knows he's watching the panties slide down her leg, because he hums appreciatively, and only then does he let his hand wander. Crystal gasps quietly, turning her face away from his, but in the following second he is above her, his elbow inches away from her nose as he presses a kiss against her cheek, telling her he wants to see her. Telling her he wants her to look at him – please? Crystal acquiesces, of course she does, no matter if it's never been this embarrassing before, because this is how much she loves him. His eyes are on hers as he moves his hand, and Crystal can't help but to close them when he slides against a particularly sweet spot. Gold halts, and she finds herself whining.

"I said, I wanted to see you," he murmurs, and when she opens her eyes he is still there, focused on her expression. But there is no time to be embarrassed, because a second after that, he resumes playing her, and she doesn't know how, but she keeps her eyes on his. It's hard to keep her eyes open when all she wants to do is close them, and it's humiliating (while oddly satisfactory) to know that he is going to get off on this moment. It coils the spring inside her further, and for a while the build-up is almost unbearable, but when it strikes her, Crystal only has the time to mewl his name before his mouth is on hers again, insistently prolonging the sweet, sweet effect.

She needs a few seconds after that, and he gives them to her, occupying himself with kissing her while she trembles with the effects of her orgasm. He plays with the wilting straps of her dress, runs his hands across the back of her thighs and an idea must strike him because before she becomes entirely coherent, she feels his tongue—

"Oh, _god_," she gasps, and it doesn't even strike her as vaguely blasphemous that she is calling to god at a moment like this. If last time the build-up was too slow, then this one is too fast – she only has the time to feel her eyes water and her mouth opening and taking in a long, moaning sigh before she is back to the shivering state she was in just ten seconds before. She doesn't even notice she is closing her legs around his head until his hands push her knees apart and he comes into her field of vision. He's smiling as he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.

"That good?"

She covers her face with her hands – that is the only answer he needs, certainly.

She wonders how he manages to remain so shameless even now. His invulnerability to mortification is only active when he's the one on the giving side; she remembers his face when she was the one on top, her fingers the only known cause to his deep voice and back-arching. That is why she makes to sit up, but in her woozy state, she finds that she can't. He helps her up with a soft, if smug, smile, and it takes Crystal a few seconds to regain her bearings, but when she does, she shows her nervous hands the way to the button of his pants. She can hear him swallow in anticipation, his Adam's apple climbing up and down against the top of her head as she stares at her handy-work. Her forehead leaning against his collarbones, small concentration creases coming and going –

She feels a rush of adrenaline (and pride) when she notices he's already hard, but that doesn't stop her hands from shaking as she slips them inside his boxers. What does calm her down substantially is the sound of his shallow pants as she tries her best to remember his reactions from before – Crystal presses an absent kiss to his strained throat at the same time her fingers wrap around him, and her embarrassed smile surfaces when he finally groans, sweet and low. She takes it slow because he did it too, and because doing it fast is just a little too pornographic for her. It already baffles her to know that she is doing this out of her own volition.

In the midst of her half-distracted thinking, he bends to kiss her. It's a gooey, sweet kiss, but it's spicy at the same time, and she tightens her hold, feeling his stomach contract at the same time he closes his eyes, frowning in concentration.

"No," she whispers, and in the next second his eyes are on hers, obedient and promising eternal love. It would almost scare her, if she were not sure hers mirror his exactly. Crystal doesn't break eye contact, pumping him slowly like he told her to in his bedroom, and Gold bites on his lip, hard, his hands covering hers as he mouths an apology before he picks up speed. She is transfixed at the sight of him preferring her hands over his own, at the sight of the wrinkles of his furrowed brow, knit in frustration of being close, his hips grinding into her hand. Crystal moistens her lips semi-unconsciously, replying to his half-desperate kiss.

They reach the ending line after that. She's not entirely sure of what he says – it's either "fuck" or "please" – but she knows she lets him pick the way it's going to pan out. He ends up sitting on the edge of the pool table after he pulls a condom out (and somewhere in the back of her head Crystal should be appalled at the thought that he's _planned_ this), his legs dangling, and he pulls her on top easily enough that she is almost suspicious, until she remembers this is Gold.

"My dress," she says, even though it's supposed to be a question.

"I'll take it off when we get home," he answers, shrugging and pointing at his undone zipper. Good enough; she's not going to complain now.

His hands gently pull her into him—but not without a careful look, a last question, to which she replies with a kiss. Crystal buries her face in the nook of his shoulder, her blunt nails dragging parallel lines across the bare skin of his neck when they finally fit together. Gold hisses against her ear, grabbing her hips, and Crystal wonders if she's doing something wrong, until she realises he's trying not to come.

"Tell me when I can move," he groans, and Crystal raises on unsteady knees, pulling him into a kiss. He thankfully takes the hint: she doesn't think she can say something other than his name at the moment. It's mostly because of the hurricane of emotions that is surging through her than anything else. She's in the middle of wondering if sex is just really overrated, because his fingers and mouth were much better, when she feels it. The bundle of nerves in the apex of her thighs suddenly making her arch her back, suddenly making her eyes water, suddenly making her cry out his name into his ear. Crystal completely melts against him, capable only of trying to match the circular, slow, sensual motion of his thrusts. The world around her blurs: there is only the dark gold of his eyes, there is only the wet press of his tongue on hers, there is only the electricity, crackling dangerously everywhere he touches – her breasts, her face, her neck, her ass, the inside of her leg, when he hooks it over his shoulder, suddenly revamping the feeling and overcharging it in such a way that she feels him better and harder than before.

"You really _are_ flexible," he whispers into her ear, in-between the slow grinds they are both participating in. Crystal vaguely recognises the hardening grip on her knee, flexing her tense leg further, making her tighten and whine in his ear. She also notices the lecherous tone of his voice, telling stories of the future times he will just _have_ to take advantage of her flexibility.

Crystal is unable to answer eloquently, instead choosing to focus on her breathing. It's never been this hard to keep herself alive, she is sure, especially when his hand slides from her hip to between her thighs, helping her reach a higher state of voltage.

"Oh—" she moans, her lips on his, half-drowned noises slipping, and half-drowning conscience choking on euphoria.

"I love you," he says hoarsely, when he pulls away, the whole expanse of his face a delightful shade of pink, and Crystal knows that is what makes her come. Her leg flexes over his shoulder, her toes curling, her other leg wrapping tighter around his waist. She dimly notes that her fingers are fisted in the collar of his shirt, her free hand pulling on his hair while she cries his name into his ear.

He returns the sentiment almost immediately, pushing her into his lap harder as he falls back. There is a dull noise as his head hits against the green felt, but his eyes don't stray from hers as his hand searches hers. She's on top – which isn't news, of course, but somehow the fact that he is lying back takes her back to the first time she got to second (or was it third? Baseball-slash-sex analogies have never really sat well with Crystal), and her hips tug forward, almost out of her own volition.

And that's when he comes, pulling her down to press a kiss on her lips, cheeks, forehead – wherever he can reach – before Crystal _feels_ the tendons on his neck pushing against her as the back of his head does its best to dig into the felt of the pool table. His nails drag across the skin of her backside and she is surprised that she likes it.

"That good?" she echoes timidly, teasingly, her voice exhausted, along with the muscles of her legs, and even in the midst of catching his breath Gold laughs along with her.

* * *

They walk home arm in arm because she's not sure her legs will hold her every step of the way, and because she refuses to be carried by him, more than familiar with his naughty hands. They get home just in time for the clock in the living room to chime twelve bells, midnight, the start of another day – and also less afraid of what the future holds, maybe because they know they have each other.

The moment of captivating passion is lost, however, once Gold decides to keep his promise, pulling Crystal out of her dress and into her room.


End file.
